CHAPTER XVII.
CAITIFF BAFFLES OGRE.
Another rush of horses’ feet behind us.
What?
Elder Sizzum!
And that pale, gray shadow of a man, whose pony the Elder drags by the bridle, and lashes cruelly forward,—who?
Mr. Clitheroe.
Sizzum rode straight up to Brent.
The two men faced each other,—the big, hulking, bullying saint; the slight, graceful, self-possessed gentile. Sizzum quailed a little when he saw the other did not quail. He seemed to change his intended form of address.
“Brother Clitheroe wants his daughter,” said Sizzum.