That night was one of moonlight. The moorman saw a gentleman in black riding a good horse before him, and he pushed on to be abreast with him and have a little talk.
"Whom have I the honour of riding with at night?" asked the moorman.
"I'm the new curate," said the convict, "going round on my pastoral duties."
"Oh, indeed, without saddle and bridle?"
"I was called up to a dying person. My groom was away. For souls one must do much."
"Indeed, and your clothes don't seem to fit you," observed the moorman.
Now the doctor was a fat man, and the man who wore his clothes was lean.
"My duties are wearing to the carnal man," said the rider.
"And the horse. By ginger! it's the doctor's," exclaimed the moorman.
The convict kicked the flanks of his steed, and away he bounded. The hill had been surmounted. The moorman gave chase.