I have said, that for a moment Holtspur appeared irresolute. The spectators beheld his irresolution with hearts throbbing apprehensively.
It was but for a moment; and then, the black steed was seen suddenly to turn head towards the town, and came trotting back over the bridge!
Some believed that his rider had repented of his rashness, and was about to deliver himself up to the guard, from whom he had escaped. Others were under the impression, that he intended to run the gauntlet, and was choosing the weaker party through which to make the attempt.
Neither conjecture was the correct one: as was proved the instant after—when Holtspur suddenly setting his horse transverse to the direction of the causeway, and giving the noble animal a simultaneous signal by voice, hand, and heel, sprang him over the palings into the meadow below!
The taunting cry shouted back, as he galloped off over the green sward—a cry that more than once had tortured the ears of pursuing Indians—was heard above the vociferous huzza that greeted his escape from Scarthe and his discomfited followers.
The shots fired after him had no effect. In those days a marksman was a character almost unknown; and the bullet of a carbine was scarce more dreaded, than the shaft of the clumsy cross-bow.
The pursuit continued by the cuirassiers along the verdant banks of the Colne, was more for the purpose of saving appearances, than from any hope of overtaking the fugitive. Before his pursuers could clear the obstacle that separated them from the mead, and place themselves upon his track, the “black horseman” appeared like a dark speck—rapidly diminishing in size, as he glided onward towards the wild heaths of Iver.