“Good Heavens! cousin; what has come over you? But I won’t question now; there’s no time.”
“There isn’t. See yonder. Rupert and Lunsford, with the Powells as their prisoners.”
“We know all that. But where are the ruffians taking them?”
“Berkeley first; then Bristol. They’re making to cross at Framilode Passage. It’s but a short way beyond.”
“They shall never cross it—can’t before we come up with them. You’ll be with us now, Rej?”
“I will.”
The strange episode, and dialogue, took up but a few seconds’ time; during which Rob Wilde, with a half-score files of Foresters, had disarmed the unresisting rear-guard. It was now under guard itself, and all ready for continuing the pursuit.
And continued it was instantaneously; Sir Richard, at the head of his green-coats, spurring straight into the flood, and on after the red ones, without further precaution either of silence or concealment. For he knew they would be seen now.