I was scarcely listening, for, just ahead, I fancied I could see a signpost which must mark cross-roads. After a moment I called excitedly to Mount, pointing out to him the tall post in the middle of the road. Behind it the moon was setting.
"Ay," he said, coolly, "that's our runway. The game will cross here in an hour or so. Sit your saddle, Mr. Cardigan; there's time to whistle the devil's jig to an end yet."
But I was out of my saddle and priming my rifle afresh before he could finish.
"Poor lad," he said, pityingly. "Lord, but you're white as a cross-roads ghost. Shemmy, take the chaise south till you come to a spring brook that crosses the road; it's a hundred yards or so. Cover the coach-lamps with blankets and look to the horses a bit. Cade, I guess you had better take this side of the road with me. We want to be sure o' the post-boys. Mr. Cardigan, try to shoot the driver through the head. There's too much risk in a low shot."
"For God's sake, be careful!" I begged them. "Remember the lady is in the chaise. Can't you kill the leading horses—wouldn't that be safer?"
They were silent for a while. Presently Mount looked guiltily at me, muttering something about "highwayman style," but Renard shook his head.
"Well," began Mount, combatively, "it's the safest. I can stop the chaise all alone without a shot fired if you wish."
He looked at me; there was a joyously evil light in his sparkling eyes.
"This is familiar ground to me," he said, impudently. "Cade and I stopped Sir Timerson Chank by that signpost."
After a moment he added: "Coach and six; post-boys, coachman, footmen, and guards—all armed—eh, Cade, old spark? Lord, how they gaped when I took off my hat and invited Sir Timerson to a stroll! Do you mind that fat coachman, Cade?—and all the post-boys agape and cross-eyed with looking into your rifle-barrel?"