Now as he leaned thus against the cross, watching these slow-creeping drops, he became aware of hoofs approaching at a wild gallop, and, glancing up, espied a horseman who rode very furiously, and it was with a faint surprise that he recognised Mr. Hartop; on came the parson, spurring his plump steed mercilessly, until, perceiving Sir John, he abated his speed somewhat.
“Sir—sir,” he cried, his voice thin and high, “they are killing the witch ... old Penelope Haryott! The mob is out ... my Lord Sayle will do nothing. They’ve wrecked her cottage.... I’m for Sir Hector MacLean and any who are men ... pray God we be in time! You, sir—quick, I beseech ... High Dering.”
“Sayle?” repeated Sir John. “Is he there?”
“Sir, ’twas by his orders they ransacked her cottage seeking the man Potter.... God help the poor soul! Haste, sir, if ye would be o’ service!”
Next moment Sir John was before the ‘Market Cross Inn’ shouting for horse, ostlers and the Corporal.
“Sir?” questioned the imperturbable Robert, hurrying downstairs.
“To horse, Bob, at once! Nay, first my sword with the rapier blade!” And, unhooking the gold-hilted weapon at his side, Sir John tossed it upon the table.
“The one you bid me sharpen, sir?”
“Yes, yes—and hurry, man, ’tis life and death!” And away hasted Sir John to see the horses saddled, to mount and fume at the ostlers until the Corporal came running, the sword beneath his arm.
“Is’t sharp, Bob, is’t sharp?” questioned Sir John, as he buckled the weapon on.