“There’s a dunnamany Excisemen out. We’ll have to make back to Cowfold—if we can,” said Mr Bundy, dismounting. He became aware of Eustacie, and favoured her with a long dispassionate look. “Where did that dentical wench come from?” he inquired.
“She’s my cousin. Can’t we win through to Hand Cross?”
Mr Bundy accepted Eustacie’s identity without comment and apparently without interest. “We’m not likely to win to Cowfold,” he replied. “They’re on to us.”
At this gloomy pronouncement his brother Ned, pulling him a little apart, broke into urgent, low-voiced speech. Ludovic strode over to join in the discussion, and returned in a few minutes to Eustacie’s side, saying briskly: “Well, I’m sorry for it, but I can’t let you go to London tonight. You’ll have to come with us.”
“Oh, I would much rather come with you,” Eustacie assured him. “Where are we going?”
“South,” he replied briefly. “Those damned riding-officers must have got wind of this convoy. There may be some rough work done before the night’s out, I warn you. Come along!”
He seized her by the wrist again and strode off with her to where her horse had been tethered, and without ceremony tossed her up into the saddle. Eustacie, seeing the two Bundys busy with the laden ponies, said emulatively: “Can I help to lead them, please?”
“No. Keep quiet.”
“But what can I do?”
“Nothing.”