Betty Ives placed the papers within the bosom of her tight-fitting riding-habit, and leant back as if she had done with the subject.
Mr. Ives looked with anxious eyes through the window.
The mail was passing along a wide fair unsheltered road, on each side spread away treeless tracts of country, flat and wide, over which the fresh cold wind blew listlessly. To the left the horizon was bounded by the wide expanse of the grassy Berkshire downs. They rose and fell, a vast undulating plain, covered with short fine herbage.
It was growing very dark; the parson drew in his head, and thanked Heaven that the country was so fine and open, that he could even in the gathering gloom see far behind and before, and could perceive no suspicious object.
"We are all right here," said Mr. Barnes, his voice becoming more and more dismal. "But a mile farther on, and we come to a small wood—the road dips down there suddenly, it is a first-rate place for an ambush."
"Mercy! mercy!" cried Mary Jones in a voice half-strangled by the anguish of her terror.
"We have yet a mile of safety," said Betty kindly "—a whole mile, Mary; and going at this pace, we need not prepare our terrors for another hour."
"Heaven grant that the moon may be up," cried Barnes.
"Sir," said Betty slowly, "I imagine that you carry arms?"
"I am not unarmed," he answered hastily, "I have pistols and a sword."