We now doubled back upon our old track, and presently came into the Womersley road, about a mile from Darrington village. For half-an-hour we rode through the woods of Stapleton, which overshadowed the road on either side, and shut out what moonlight there was. Then came the long, winding street of Womersley, and the clatter of our horses’ feet against the cottage walls, and then we were into a thickly wooded country again, relieved here and there by wild patches of marsh and moor. In a shifty light (for the moon that night was of an uncertain behaviour) we raced across Balne Common. It was near three o’clock when we drew near to Snaith, and pulled up our horses under the shelter of a wayside coppice to consider our further plans.
“Shall we cross the river at Snaith,” says Merciful, “or shall we go on by the south bank to the ferry over the Ouse at Hooke? There is something to be said for both roads.”
“I know naught of either,” says I, “and must therefore leave the matter to your own decision, lad. I incline to the straightest road, so long as it is fairly clear of interruption.”
“I think we’ll make for Hooke,” says he, after he had meditated awhile. “From Howden to Hull there is a good turnpike road, and we shall make better progress. God send we find no interruption at the ferry!”
So we rode forward again, through Cowick and Rawcliffe, leaving Snaith on the left, and made good progress until we came to Airmyn at four o’clock in the morning. But there, just as I was beginning to feel sure of our deliverance, we received a sudden check that took all the conceit out of me, and left me a prey to more doubts and fears than I had any fancy for.
Airmyn was all alive. There were lights in every house, and as we came along the street we heard sounds of shouting and singing as though the place were filled with roysterers rather than with peaceable villagers. Coming to the open space before the inn we found a crowd of men and horses, and made out from a little distance that the former were Royalist troopers. With a common consent we drew rein, and looked at one another by such light as the candles and lanthorns in the cottage windows afforded us.
“What say you, Merciful?” says I. “Shall we venture through this mob, or is there some by-way that we can try?”
“There is no by-way,” says he, shaking his head. “And they see us by this time, and would think it suspicious did we turn back. Best go forward as if we were travellers in haste to continue our journey. Remember,” he saying, bending over to me, “that you are a country gentleman, travelling with your lady and servant to Hull, and that we are all staunch Royalists.”
“Can we play the parts?” says I.