'I've had a nasty knock on the head, and I suppose they look to the night mail to finish the business. Make haste, John! where's your horse? Treachery's afoot to-night. I've lost my despatches—they robbed me of them! But I'll beat them all yet! Give me your flask. How far is it to Révonde?'
The troopers had dispersed, some to warn the coming train, others to arrange for the removal of the carriage from the track.
Counsellor had his foot in the stirrup, and with difficulty Rallywood got him up into the saddle.
'Thirty miles, but you cannot ride there to-night,' answered Rallywood.
'With your help I'll beat them yet, John! Thirty miles? I'll be there before daylight! I can go by the stars once I find the road.'
He stuck his heels into the horse's side, but Rallywood still held the bridle.
A wild gust tore round them, and in the succeeding lull Rallywood laid his hand on the other man's knee.
'Major Counsellor, you are my prisoner,' he said.
'How's this, John?' the question came thin, pitiful and weak. A new doubt, the old affection, and a strange helplessness mingled in the words, and they cut deep into Rallywood's ears.
'That was a bad knock on the head,' muttered the Major apologetically, and sank forward on the horse's neck again unconscious.