“Yes. I’ll take hold, though, of the horse’s mane.”
“Ready, Samson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, forward, and not a word; we must leave everything to chance. Our only hope is that we may pass between the sentinels, and that the darkness may screen us from their eyes.”
A quarter of an hour’s slow and careful progress over the soft grassy moor, and then they stopped short, for there was the chink of metal and the sharp stamp of a horse.
“If ours challenge him with a neigh, we are lost,” thought Fred, as he stood trembling, and patting his horse’s nose.
“Poor old lad, then!” whispered Samson; and, their attention taken by their masters’ caressing hands, the brave beasts remained silent, and then moved on till there was a road to be crossed, and Samson halted.
“Can’t help it, sir; there’s no other way,” he whispered; “and it’s all stones.”
“Forward!” whispered Fred; and they crossed the road, but not without making a sharp sound or two. Then they were once more on the soft turf, and bore away more and more to their right, till Scarlett whispered—
“Are you making for the shore?”