“Don’t come so near,” came the reply, “there is quicksand. Lord have mercy on my soul!”
Master Ronald dismounted and ran toward Lord Christopher, relapsing into a cautious walk as he neared him.
“May Satan take the knaves that left me in this plight!” groaned his lordship.
And, although it was but a sorry time for laughter, Master Ronald, perceiving that his lordship was in no immediate danger, must needs clap his hands to his knees and double up with merriment. For while most of the chair rested on the solid earth, the back and one side tilted toward a strip of quicksand in such fashion that the invalid did not dare move, lest in his struggles to free himself, he tip the chair completely over and be swallowed up.
He smiled at Master Ronald’s convulsed figure. “’Tis a merry jest, I wot, young sir,” he said dryly, “but it so haps I be in no position to observe the marvellous humour of the situation.”
“Sir,” said Master Ronald, “I beg your pardon. Take a good grip of my hand. Now out with your best foot—the ground is solid here—wait till I brace myself. Ah-h-h!” and he tumbled over backwards, nearly pulling the invalid with him.
The chair, thus lightened, rose slightly from the quicksand. The young man seized the shafts and with a vigorous jerk had the chair on good, hard sand. But he pulled it over yet some way. “What became of the Moors, sir?” he asked.
Poor Lord Christopher leant heavily on the student’s slender frame. “My lad,” he said, “I wot not what I should have done had you not followed after. Those cowardly knaves, startled by a wolf crossing our path, dropped the shafts of my chair, and with a howl, fitter to issue from brutish throats than human, took to their heels without a thought of me.”
“But what has become of the Governor?” asked the student.