There was a short conference among the men, and then the little group separated. But the lady had only closed her eyes. Her ears were eager. She sat suddenly erect.
“No, Mr. Ashley,” she cried, summarily; “a woman’s word is as weighty as a man’s. Mine has been given. I desire that you should all of you—all, every one—ride with me to London.”
In spite of her peremptory commands, there was still further parley before the coach was once more in progress, but the Lady Barbara, held in converse by Mr. Ashley, did not hear it, nor did she see that one of her escorting cavaliers remained behind when the coach moved on.
“I’ve reasons of my own for knowing whether the fellow still lingers in this vicinity,” Cecil Lindley had declared. “I’ll promise not to harm him, not to hold him; but I’ll search the spot where Lady Barbara’s coach was stopped.”
“But not single-handed!” Lord Farquhart had cried. “If you must stay, if you must go on your fool’s errand, at least take one or more of the men with you.”
“Nay, I’ve no fear for myself, but—but——” Lindley had hesitated. “Our gentleman highwayman knows the standing of his victims too well for me to have fear for my own safety. But I’ll go alone, for I’ll pass the night at my cousin Ogilvie’s. His place is near at hand, and I’d not care to quarter men on him at this unseemly hour. Good luck to you,” he had cried; “and good luck to me,” he had added, as he separated himself from them and rode away.
VIII.
The night was so far advanced that the moon was now directly overhead, and it was not very long before Lindley saw, not a hundred yards ahead of him, a white horse, ridden negligently by a somewhat slovenly lad—hooded, cloaked and doubled up in the saddle, as though riding were a newly acquired accomplishment. The road was lonely enough to instill an eerie feeling in the stoutest heart, and yet the lad seemed quite unmoved when Lindley, after one or two vocal appeals, laid a heavy hand on his horse’s bridle.
“Are ye stone deaf, my lad, or asleep, or merely mooning over some kitchen wench?” demanded Lindley, with asperity.
“Neither, my master,” answered the lad, in the cracking voice that leaps unbidden from piping youth to manly depths. “I’m uncommonly good of hearing. I’d sure fall off my horse if I were asleep, and the wench who’s most in my mind would be sadly out of place in a kitchen.”