'We have to pass the gaol for the east gate,' said she. 'Can we? Have we time? Shall we make for the west?
'The man will be a good five minutes at least. Then another five remembering what has happened,' said Roger quietly. 'Come!'
With a fleeting glance for Simone, Marion followed him out. The two ran lightly back along the road, past the gaol gates. There was not a sound from the building. No one was in the road. The whole town seemed deserted. Through the old east gate they went, and turned up towards the castle scarp.
Just beyond the ridge, in the shadow of some trees, Zacchary was waiting with the greys. Roger lifted Marion into her saddle, and leapt into his own. Then he looked down at Zacchary, and said a husky word of farewell.
Zacchary was staring as at a ghost. He had never believed the plan would succeed. Before he had time to consider was it really Master Roger, in Mistress Keziah's livery, the two were on a narrow track that led by a round-about course to join the westward road some miles farther on.
For several minutes Zacchary stood still. The sound of the horses' hoofs on the soft turf died away. He stared about the quiet green fields and down into the town. The day had come.
Mistress Keziah had ordered Zacchary to make a wide detour among the country lanes, and enter the streets later by the west gate when folk were stirring and the business of the day was afoot. For a couple of miles Zacchary followed the track of the horses. On the summit of the hill he stood and looked round.
Through a straggling copse to the right, that shielded the path the fugitives had taken, the high road from Honiton was visible, winding down into the valley. A solitary horseman was riding towards the town. In the shelter of the trees Zacchary stood and watched. There seemed to be something familiar in the man's head and shoulders. Then he remembered.
It was the messenger whose horse had cast a shoe the day the coach foundered in the lane.
CHAPTER XXII