Captain Heron sat up, and groped for his hat.
“That’s no post-chaise,” said their guide and mentor, still chewing his blade of grass. He glanced up at the sun, calculating the time. “Likely it’s the Oxford stage.”
In a few moments the vehicle came into sight round a bend in the road, some way off. It was a great lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, and piled high with baggage. Beside the coachman sat an armed guard, and all over the roof such passengers who could only afford to pay half their fare perched and clung precariously.
“Don’t touch stage rablers myself,” remarked Mr Hawkins, watching the coach lurch and sway over the bumps in the road. “Nothing to be had but a rum fam or two, or a thin truss.”
The coach laboured ponderously on, and was presently lost to sight. The noise of the plodding hooves was borne back in the still air for long after it had gone, growing fainter and fainter until at last it died.
A solitary horseman bearing westwards passed next. Mr. Hawkins sniffed at him, and shook his head. “Small game,” he said scornfully.
Silence, except for the trill of a lark somewhere overhead, again fell over the Heath. Captain Heron dozed peacefully; the Viscount took snuff. The sound of a coach travelling fast broke the stillness after perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The Viscount nudged Captain Heron sharply, and picked up his mask. Mr Hawkins cocked his head on one side, listening “Six horses there,” he pronounced. “Hear ’em?”
The Viscount had risen, and put his mare’s bridle over her head. He paused. “Six?”
“Ay, outriders, I dessay. Might be the Mail.” He looked histhree companions over. “Four on us—what do you say, my bullies?”
“Good God, no!” replied the Viscount. “Can’t rob the Mail!”