“As a razor, your honour, both edges, from the p’int six inches up——”
“Then up with ye and—spur, Bob!” The Corporal sprang to saddle, found his stirrups, and, wheeling the high-mettled animals, they dashed into the street and away at full gallop: and spur how he would, the Corporal had much ado to keep Sir John in sight.
Now presently, as they raced thus, they heard a distant sound that might have been wind in trees, a vague murmur that grew upon them with every stride, waxing ever louder and more terrible, a sound than which there is surely none more dreadful, the ferocious, inarticulate roar of an angry mob.
With this awful clamour in his ears, Sir John spurred his horse to yet faster pace; but across country he might save half a mile or so; therefore steadying the mare he set her at a gate, cleared it gallantly, and away pounded the sorrel at stretching gallop, taking dykes and brooks in her stride: across and over and through ditch and fence and hedge, swerving for nothing, staying for nothing, until, clearing hedge and ditch at mighty bound, her fast-galloping hoofs thundered upon dusty road again.
And presently Sir John saw the thatched roofs of High Dering, and then he was racing down its winding street; a moment more and he was upon the Tye or village green where swayed a tumultuous, roaring crowd; and in the midst, her white head horribly bedabbled, a mark for every gibing tongue and merciless hand, reeled old Penelope Haryott.
And now a demon awoke in Sir John; his modish serenity was utterly gone, his eyes glared, his teeth gleamed between snarling lips and, spurring his rearing horse, he drove in upon the mob, striking savagely with heavy whip at the faces of such as chanced nearest: whereupon the full-throated roar changed to shouts of anger and dismay, to screams of pain and fear, to a whine. But, spurring upon the shrinking people, he lashed at them as they had been curs, until the heavy whip broke in his grasp, and like curs they ran before him, howling. Then chancing to espy Mr. Oxham, who stood beside Sturton before ‘The Dering Arms,’ he wheeled and galloped up to them.
“Rogues!” he panted. “Where’s your master?—where is Lord Sayle?... Tell him ... Sir John Dering ... awaits him.”
“Sir John—Dering?” exclaimed Oxham, staring, while Mr. Sturton, uttering a gasping moan, sank down upon adjacent bench and bowed his head between clasping hands. And then Mr. Oxham was pushed aside and my Lord Sayle stepped from the inn.
Sir John lightly dismounted.
“Ah, my lord,” quoth he, “so I find ye trespassing and murdering on my land.”