It was rapidly growing dark, and one man lit a lanthorn, while the other clapped the bit between the teeth of a handsome black horse, turned the docile creature in its stall, and then slipped on a heavy military saddle with its high-peak holsters and curb-bit.
Five minutes after they were mounted and making for Charing Cross.
“Which way are we going?” asked Frank, whose excitement increased to a feeling of wild exhilaration, as he felt the beautifully elastic creature between his knees, with a sensation of participating in its strength, and being where he would have a hundred times the chance of getting to speak to his father.
“Up north,” said the captain abruptly.
“North? Why not east? They will take him to the Tower.”
“No. Steady horse. Walk, walk! Hold yours in, boy. We must go at a slow pace till we get to the top of the lane.”
The horses settled down to their walk, almost keeping pace for pace, as the captain said quietly:
“I have got all the information I required. No, they will not take the prisoners to the Tower, but to Newgate.”
“Newgate?” cried Frank; “why, that is where the thieves and murderers go.”
“Yes,” said the captain abruptly. “Look here, Frank. They are not to reach the prison till nine, so we have plenty of time to get some distance out. They will come in by the north road, and I don’t think we can miss them.”