“How long have you lived in this cottage?”
“Twenty-three years, sir.”
“And you know only the way to Lichfield?”
“Yes, sir.”
He thanked the woman, and they rode on through the fog. The limited knowledge of the English peasantry regarding the geography of their own district had baffled him more than once during their journey, and this was but a fair example of the ignorance he had to contend against. He resolved to take the turn to the right in preference to the leftward lane. He feared Lichfield or any other place of similar size, and he dreaded the main road. It was impossible for Cromwell to patrol the whole country at a moment’s notice, so the by-ways would be safer if less direct. Their progress had been so slow that there was ample time for a hard rider with relays of horses to have spread a warning far ahead of them, and now caution, rather than speed, was their game. These points he discussed with his companion as they rode along in the fog, and she agreed with his conclusions. Each tried to cheer the other, but both were undeniably discouraged by the conditions that surrounded them.
About a mile from the hut they came to the end of their road, with the horizontal lane at its head, extending east and west. As they turned to the right, some object loomed in the fog ahead, and there came a sharp cry:
“Who goes there?”
“To the left,” whispered Armstrong, turning his horse. Frances obeyed instantly, but the man in front fired his musket into the air and raised a shout, whereupon four others sprang from the dripping bushes, and two of them seized the reins of the startled horses.
“Resistance is useless,” said the soldier hanging to the rein of the plunging Bruce, “there are a hundred men along this lane.”
“I have no need to resist,” cried Armstrong with affected indignation, although none realized so well as he that the game was up. “We are peaceful travellers under safe-conduct from General Cromwell himself.”