Barnet's men were now a half mile behind, evidently nursing the powers of their horses for a timely dash. A stopPage_of any kind might nip Hal's fine project in the bud. Hence it was with anxiety that he strained his eyes forward. The newcomers were approaching at a fast walk. One of them, the foremost, was carrying a light. As they drew nearer, riding one behind another, they took a side of the road, the more speedily to pass. But the leader, as he came opposite Anthony Underhill, and saw the Puritan's face in the feeble light, instantly pulled up, and called out to one behind in a kind of surprise:
"Here's Sir Valentine's steward, Anthony Underhill!"
"Give ye good even, Dickon, and let us pass," said Anthony, sourly; for the other had quickly turned his horse crosswise so as to block most of the narrow road.
"Is that thy master I see yonder?" he asked, holding his light toward Hal, who had promptly ridden up abreast of Anthony.
"What is that to you, fellow?" cried Hal.
'Tis something to me!" called out a voice behind the fellow,—a voice that startled Hal, for it was a woman's. "Are you Sir Valentine?"
"Who wishes to know?" inquired Hal, putting some courtesy into the speech.
"I do—Anne Hazlehurst!" was the quick answer. And the light-bearer having made room for her, she rode forward.
Hazlehurst! Where, Hal asked himself, had he recently heard that name?
"Well, are you Sir Valentine?" she demanded, impatiently.