On entering Newton, Pepperill turned his horse’s head to make a detour, so as to avoid passing the inn that had been rebuilt after having been burnt down. For some reason undefined in his own heart, he shrank from driving before that house.
In a few minutes the cob was trotting along the Ashburton road. Pasco looked behind him. He heard the sound of the hoofs of another horse, and the rattle of other wheels. Some traveller was on the road that night.
“Uncle,” said Kate, “I think the moon is going to rise.”
“I suppose so.”
“Will it not be grand on the moor, with the moon shining over it, and the Dart flowing like silver below?”
“Silver? I wish it were silver, and I’d pocket it,” growled Pasco. “Dang it! what is that which is following?”
He slackened his pace, but the conveyance did not pass him; it approached, and the driver was content to keep in the rear.
“Will you go on?” shouted Pasco, turning his head.
“No, we’ll remain as we are,” answered the driver.
“How far are you going?”