Rochford, a fiery grey horse which Mr. Cobbold had lately purchased from Lord Rochford, at Easton, rose up and snorted, and clanked his chains so terribly, that Margaret expected every moment that old George who slept over the stable, would present himself; but the old man was deaf, and heavy in his sleep, and had only returned from Mrs. Proby’s, of Stratford, late that evening, and had not been in bed above an hour, so that he was in his first sound sleep.
“Margaret, you must take this lantern, and just move the dark part round, and it will show you where the old boy’s stable-dress is; go up the stairs carefully, and bring it down with you.”
Margaret did so. She went with breathless step to the bedside of the coachman. His stable dress was upon the floor; she took it up gently, and as cautiously receded with it down to the stable again, closing the door without noise.
“So far so good, Margaret. Now, do you dress yourself there in the empty stall, while I saddle and bridle the further horse.”
This, however, was more than John Cook could do, for Rochford was of such a spirit, and sent out at him with such vengeance that he dared not go up to him; nor could he without Margaret’s help put the saddle or bridle on to Crop. She dressed herself as quickly as she could in the coachman’s stable-dress; he being a little fellow, and Margaret rather tall, they only hung about her a little loosely, but were not too long for her. When she came from the stall, after rolling her own things in a bundle, and putting them into the very bottom of the seed-box, under the manger, and covering them with hay, she looked exactly like a young groom. She went up to the Crop horse and patted him on the neck, whilst her companion saddled and bridled him; she then tied some straw round his feet, so that no noise should be made in the stable-yard, and out the gallant fellow was led, ready for such a journey and for such a rider as never before had mounted his back.
“Now my girl,” exclaimed Cook, “screw up your courage to the start! Come into the meadow. I can let you out on to the Woodbridge road, and then off with you.”
“But where am I to find him? You have not told me that,” exclaimed Margaret.
“Mount! and I will tell you.”
Margaret, with his aid, was soon in the saddle, and once there, she felt her own command over her steed.
“Now Margaret,” he replied, “mind what I say: you must sell that horse if you can, at Chelmsford market to-morrow morning; if not, you must ride on to the Bull, in Aldgate, London; but if you regard your own and your lover’s safety, you will sell the horse first, and then find your way to the Dog and Bone public-house, at Lambeth; there you will find Will Laud expecting you. Sell the horse for all you can get; say he is worth a hundred guineas, and that your master, Squire John Cook, sent you up to sell him.”