Coming out on the wastes, we were compelled for the dark to go more cautiously for the broken ground; Sir Gavin pressed on steadily a little ahead, guiding us for the Stone House. We went in silence—intent upon our purpose; I wondering over the grim events of the long night, and dreading yet the event—that we should come too late, and that the rogues fleeing from Craike House, and black with rage at their defeat, should wreak their vengeance on my father—if indeed they held him at the Stone House—ere we might arrive.
I thought of Charles Craike flying through the night: he who had wrought this evil; victorious yet, the plundered jewels in his possession,—the jewels for which, as surely as my grandfather, he had sold his very soul. I thought of his triumphant laughter, as he fled through the night; I thought of all the cunning and the tricks by which he surely would escape us yet, and fly to France, and spend the treasure as he would, and where upon the Continent he would. But I thought, too, of black Roger racing grimly after through the night; I trusted yet that he, with all his knowledge of the roads, mounted on his great horse which many a time had carried him to safety, would come up with my uncle, and take him and the treasure.
On in the dark we rode. The way over the moorlands seemed unending; black coppice and rock, black upland appeared to join the blackness of the moonless, starless night; the bleak winds blowing at our backs, the lash of rain now falling on our shoulders. On and on, the blackness giving place to the one greyness of clouded skies and moorlands; the pale dawn coming.
And with the dawn we came out on the height above the Stone House, and saw it lie grey in the hollow below us; no gleam of firelight showed from its windows; no smoke curled up. No one was stirring; the house seemed deserted. The baying of the hound sounded up to us. But, as we paused and drew together, Sir Gavin Masters, pointing with his whip, growled out, “They’re here—some of the rogues. See the horses feeding down by the wall there”—and suddenly bellowing with triumph, “Ay, and by God, Charles Craike himself is here; that’s my nag with the saddle on its back—inside the wall!”
Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “Come down, Sir Gavin! Come down! We dare not wait! What may be done within?”—and rode off apace.
Sir Gavin, following with the rest of us, gasped, “But what of Roger Galt? What’s come to the fellow?”
Roger Galt was nigh the gateway. He stood, hatless, mired, and bleeding from a gash upon his brow, regarding his horse, lying dead on the stones before him. He was dazed yet from his fall, for, as we rode all about him, and Sir Gavin cried out, “What’s chanced to you, Galt?” he stood blinking at us stupidly a moment without answering. He swept his hand across his brow then, and wiped back the blood; and muttered, “That’s his work—damn him! The horse there! I come up with him at the gate. He pulled his barker on me, and I whipped out mine, and blazed at him. He’s away—and his bullet’s in my horse! He tried to take the London road; he couldn’t get away from me in the dark. I know the dark.”
“You’re not hurt, Galt,” cried Sir Gavin. “The fellow’s like to be in the house still. Ah, the gate’s open. See to your barkers, all of ye! Two of you ride to the back of the house. Come now!”
At our head then Sir Gavin rode through the gateway; we clattered after him over the cobbles and up to the house. The front door was shut fast and the windows closed; no sound and no light came from within. Sir Gavin scrambling down, we all dismounted; he, pistol in right, hunting crop in left, strode boldly up to the door, and hammered upon it, roaring out, “Open this door! In the King’s name—d’ye hear me? Open the door!”
No sound coming in answer, he turned back, and beckoning to his two fellows, ordered, “Look about ye for a log! We’ll have the door down!” and while they searched about the house, again he approached the door, and beat upon it, roaring out, “Open! Open! In the King’s name! Damn ye all—why don’t ye open the door?”