“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”
“Where can we get them quickly?”
“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.
In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.
“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.
“Yes—yes,” was the reply.
“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”
Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.
“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”
“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”