Horatia, startled, but as yet unalarmed, found herself confronted by a large horse-pistol, held in a grimy hand. Her astonished gaze travelled upwards to the curtain-mask and she cried out: “Gracious! F-foot-pads!”
A laugh greeted this exclamation and the man holding the barker said in a beery voice: “Bridle culls, my pretty! We bain’t no foot-scamperers! Hand over the gewgaws and hand ’em quick, see?”
“I shan’t!” said Horatia, grasping her reticule firmly.
It seemed as though the highwayman was rather at a loss, but while he hesitated a second masked rider jostled him out of the way and made a snatch at the reticule. “Ho-ho, there’s a fat truss!” he gloated, wresting it from her, “and a rum fam on your finger too! Now softly, softly!”
Horatia, far more angry than she was frightened at having her purse wrenched from her, tried to pull her hand away, and failing, dealt her assailant a ringing slap.
“How dare you, you odious p-person!” she raged.
This was productive only of another coarse guffaw, and she was beginning to feel really rather alarmed when a voice suddenly shouted: “Lope off! Lope off! or we’ll be snabbled! Coves on the road!”
Almost at the same moment a shot sounded, and hooves could be heard thundering down the road. The highwayman released Horatia in a twinkling; another shot exploded; there was a great deal of shouting and stamping and the highwaymen galloped off into the dusk. The next instant a rider on a fine bay dashed up to the coach and reined in his horse, rearing and plunging. “Madam!” the newcomer said sharply, and then in tones of the utmost surprise: “My Lady Rule! Good God, ma’am, are you hurt?”
“W-why, it’s you!” cried Horatia. “No, I’m n-not in the least hurt.”
Lord Lethbridge swung himself out of the saddle and stepped lightly up on to the step of the coach, taking Horatia’s hand in his. “Thank God I chanced to be at hand!” he said. “There is nothing to frighten you now, ma’am. The rogues are fled.”