After a few more miles Marion became aware that her horse was a neck ahead of Roger's; then a length. Roger drove his heels into the grey's flanks. For a few yards they speeded alongside, then Marion found herself ahead again. She slightly checked her pace and glanced at her companion. There was a queer look on Roger's face. He slowed to a trot, leaning over to examine the action of his horse's feet.
'Wait a minute, Mawfy,' he said quietly. Hastily dismounting, he examined his horse's shoes and knees. 'I can see nothing,' he said, springing up again. 'It is perhaps a tendon that does not show any swelling yet.'
The horse, urged into speed, ran unevenly, jerking on the off hind. With crop and heel Roger pressed the brute to his utmost, but both the riders knew his miles were numbered. Neither spoke. Each had the same cold dread at heart.
'How far are we from Liskeard?' asked Marion faintly.
'Close on ten miles, I should think. But there should be an inn half-way.'
Mercilessly Roger forced the pace of the limping grey. 'It grieves me,' he said abruptly, 'but 'tis his life against mine.'
From time to time Marion looked fearfully over her shoulder. She knew that the wind, driving against them, would make it impossible for them to hear their pursuers till they were close at hand. Another quarter of an hour, at this rate, should bring them within hail.
'Take my horse and go on,' said Marion suddenly. 'They would not dare shoot me, and if they took me back to gaol Aunt Keziah would get me out.'
Roger's answer was a look from which Marion turned her face away. They trotted on in silence. The road had turned into a winding waggon track that curled round the hillside. Beeches topped the steep, unbroken hedges bordering the way. Behind the hedges on the one hand the ground fell away steeply, on the other climbing to a ridge that was the last outpost of the moor.
Roger stood in his stirrups. 'I think I can see some sort of a building, a couple of miles or so farther on where this lane ends.'