"'Tis the hill, your honour," said I.
He glanced up and down.
"What is't comes up behind?" says he, shouting. "There is a noise of horses that pounds upon the road."
"'Tis the wind," says I, "that comes off the valley, and makes play among the branches."
He sank back in his seat, and we went forward slowly. But he was presently out again, screaming on the night.
"There is a horseman behind," says he. "What does he there?"
"'Tis a traveller, your honour," say I, "that goes, no doubt, by our road, and is bound for London."
"He shall be bound for hell," says he, and falls back again.
The horses wound up foot by foot and emerged now upon a space of better light. I looked round, and there was Grubbe, with his head through the window and his eyes cast backwards.