"A post-chaise passed five minutes ahead of us," began Mount, angrily.
"Tut! tut! my good fellow," said the sentry; "that's none o' your business. Back up there!"
"I wish to see Mr. Bevan," said I, scarce able to speak.
"Mr. Bevan's gone home to bed," said the soldier, impatiently. "He passed that other post-chaise at a gallop, or it would have been here yet, I warrant you. Come, come, now! You know the law. Clear the road, now!—turn your leaders, post-boy—back up, d'ye hear!"
"I tell you I've got to pass!" I persisted.
"Oh, you have, have you? And who are you, my important friend?" he sneered, barring our way with firelock balanced.
"I am deputy of Sir William Johnson!" I roared, losing all self-control. "Stand clear, there!"
"If you move I'll shoot!" he retorted; then without turning his head he bawled out: "Ho, sergeant o' the quarter-guard! Post number seven!—"
"Drive over him!" I shouted, lashing at the horses. There was a jolt, an uproar, a rush of frantic horses, a bright flash and report. Then a wheel caught the soldier and pitched him reeling into the darkness. I turned in my stirrups, glancing fearfully at Renard, who was recovering his balance in the saddle behind me and lifting a firelock to the pommel.
"Shot?" I asked, breathlessly.