“Back!” he said hoarsely, “or I fire.”
“You scoundrel!” roared Linnell. “Cowardly dog! but you are caught.”
“Stop, or I fire,” shouted Rockley again, fuming with rage and vexation at being overtaken in the hour of his triumph.
“Fire if you dare!” cried Linnell excitedly, as he pressed on.
Crack!
There was a second flash and report, and the horse Linnell rode made a spring forward as if it had been hit.
The thought flashed across Linnell’s brain that in another few moments the brave beast he bestrode would stagger and fall beneath him, and that then the cowardly scoundrel who had fired would escape with the woman he was ready to give his life to save. A curious mist seemed to float before his eyes, the hot blood of rage to surge into his brain, lights danced before him, and for the moment he felt hardly accountable for his actions.
All he knew was that he was abreast of the wheeler, with the man whipping and spurring with all his might; that the horses were snorting and tearing along in a wild race, and that Rockley was leaning out of the window yelling to the men to gallop or he would fire again.
Linnell had a misty notion Mellersh was somewhere on the other side, and that Bell was galloping behind, but he did not call to them for help. He did not even see that Mellersh was pushing forward and had reached out to catch the off-leader’s rein. All he did realise was that Claire Denville, the woman he loved, was in peril; that her whole future depended upon him; and that he must save her at any cost.
He was galloping now a little in advance of the postboy. Their knees had touched for an instant; then his leg was in front, and he was leaning forward.