'Roger's grey has fallen lame,' cried Marion, 'and the soldiers are almost on us.'
Sampson glanced keenly at the boy, who, still more amazed than he was, made a courteous salute. In his face he saw the marks of prison durance. So this was the Roger whose fate had made a criss-cross track through so many lives!
In an instant he saw his course plain. With a gesture bidding the two to follow, he set his horse at the narrow space left between the waggon and the hedge. When all three were ahead of the vehicle, Sampson dismounted.
'Take my horse, sir,' he said quietly, 'and ride on. My friend and I here will arrange a barricade. Pull your mare over so as to block the lane, my lad. Get the wheel into the ditch, so. A golden guinea for you if you keep yonder soldiers back for half an hour and hold your tongue about this exchange. We must head them off on another scent.'
The farm boy's eyes shone. With alacrity he obeyed the gentleman's orders.
'Quick!' said Marion. 'Quick! I can hear their hoofs. I can almost see them!' She was dazed by the way life and death tossed their alternate greetings in her ears.
'But you, sir,' said Roger, hesitating.
'I am an old soldier,' smiled Sampson. 'I fought behind barricades before you were born. Apart from that, there will be no need to fight. 'Tis not myself they are after.'
With her fingers clenched on her crop, watching for the gleam of red through the trees, Marion listened in an agony. The encounter had really not taken a minute's time, but to the girl the talk seemed idle and useless.
'Quick, Roger!' she cried again.