It was Providence that looked to the wheels of the coach.
A yell from Tom Blakeley, perched behind, set hearts a-thumping lustily.
Cross roads and a stretch of common land had shown keen eyes the sight of a group of horsemen riding with loose rein to meet them.
Half a mile lower was Craven's Hollow, and our merry gentlemen of the road were on their way for their tryst.
But the Oxford coach was half an hour before her time.
"Hola! Hola! Hola!"
It was a wonder those chanting grads did not fling themselves from the coach-top in their excitement.
They were ahead of their pursuers.
Blunderbusses and pistols had been handed up from the arm-chest below, but it was agreed that a fight was to be avoided.
These gentry of the black mask were straight shooters and might let more hot blood than was desirable.