With a throbbing heart, Mary obeyed her companion, and they walked side by side by the edge of the grassy bank and under the tall trees—the distance between them and the two mounted figures momentarily diminishing.
"I say he's as lame as a hop-jack," cried the well-known voice of Nicholas Blarden, as they approached—"hav'n't you an eye in your head, you mouth, you—look there—another false step, by Jove."
Just at this moment the girls, looking neither to the right nor left, and almost sinking with fear, were passing them by.
"Stop you, one of you, will you?" said Blarden, addressing them, and at the same time reining in his horse.
Flora Guy stopped, and making a slight curtsey, awaited his further pleasure, while Mary Ashwoode, with faltering steps and almost dead with terror, walked slowly on.
"Have you light enough to see a stone in a horse's hoof, my dimber hen?—have you, I say?"
"Yes, sir," faltered the girl, with another curtsey, and not venturing to raise her voice, for fear of detection.
"Well, look into them all in turn, will you?" continued Blarden, "while I walk the beast a bit. Do you see anything? is there a stone there?—is there?"
"No, sir," said she again, with a curtsey.
"No, sir," echoed he—"but I say 'yes, sir,' and I'll take my oath of it. D——n it, it can't be a strain. Get down, Ashwoode, I say, and look to it yourself; these blasted women are fit for nothing but darning old stockings—get down, I say, Ashwoode."