The moon, though obscured by a flying scud, yet gave sufficient light to disclose the shape of horse and rider looming gigantic in the dimness. Ensued the creak of saddle and stamp of heavy foot as the horseman alighted, and thereafter a knocking soft but imperative.
“Bunkle!” quoth a voice—“Peter Bunkle! Are ye there, Peter man?” From somewhere adjacent Mr. Bunkle answered, his voice sounding remarkably wide awake:
“Be that y’rself, sir?”
“Aye. Are the lads by, yet?”
“Not yet, sir. But I doan’t expect ’em for another ’arf-hour. Be aught wrong, sir?”
“Soldiers.”
“Wheer away?”
“Lyin’ ambushed over by Exeat, an’ there’s more of ’em ’twixt here and Frogfirle. I tell ye the country’s thick with ’em.... I was stopped twice.... There’ll be bloody murder ere dawn, Peter man!”
“Why, sir, Jarge Potter knows, an’ Jarge aren’t nowise to be caught nappin’ nohow. ’E’ll send the lads cross-country wi’ the stuff, I rackon, an’ lead they so’jers a foine dance.... Bide a moment an’ I’ll let ye in.” Here, after brief delay, the sound of opening door, a heavy tread, a squeak of bolts and silence again, except for moaning wind and the snort of the horse below.