"His ankles, Sergeant!"
"All secure, your honour!"
"Then mount and take him before you—so! Up with him—heave!"
Next moment Mr. Dalroyd lay bound, gagged and helpless across the withers of the Sergeant's horse.
"What's come of the coachman, Zebedee?"
"I' the ditch, sir."
"Hurt?"
"Lord love ye, just a rap o' the nob, sir."
It was now that my lady, crouched in the darkest corner of the chaise, fancied she heard shouts above the raving of the wind and, grasping the pistol in trembling fingers, ventured to look out. And thus she saw a face, pallid in the flickering light of the solitary lantern, a face streaked with mud and sweat, fierce-eyed and grim of mouth. She caught but a momentary glimpse as he swung to horse but, reading aright the determined purpose of that haggard face, she cried aloud and sprang out into the road, calling on his name.
"John—O John!" But her voice was lost in the rushing wind, and the Major, spurring his spirited horse, plunged into the dark, beyond the feeble light of the lamp, and was swallowed up in the whirling darkness.