“A letter?” he cried, and stretched out a shaking hand. “Good lord, girl, why did you not say so before? This may change all. Thistlewood may know a way to get me off. Once in Lancashire, in the crowd, let me have a hiding-place and I’m safe! And Thistlewood—he is no cur! He sticks at nothing! He is a good man! I was sure he would do something if I could get a word to him! Lord, I shall cheat them yet!” He was jubilant.
He ripped the letter open. His eyes raced along the lines. The girl, who could scarcely read, watched him with admiration, yet with a sinking heart. The letter might save him, but it would take him from her.
Something between a groan and an oath broke from him. He struck the paper with his hand.
“The fool!” he cried. “The fools! They are coming here!”
“They?” she answered, staring in astonishment.
“Thistlewood, Lunt—oh!” with a violent execration—“God knows who! Instead of getting me off they are bringing the hunt on me! Lancashire is too hot for them, so they are coming here to ruin me. And I’m to send a boat for them to-morrow night to Newby Bridge. But, I’ll not! I’ll not!” passionately. “You shall not go!”
The girl looked at him dubiously.
“After all,” she said presently, “if Thistlewood is what you say he is——”
“He’s a selfish fool! Thinking only of himself!”
“Still, if he and the rest are men—it’ll not be one man, nor two, nor five will take you—with them to help you!”