“What is it comes up behind?” says he, shouting. “There is a noise of horses that pounds upon the road.”
“’Tis the wind,” says I, “that comes off the valley and makes play among the branches.”
He sank back in his seat, and we went forward slowly. But he was presently out again, screaming on the night.
“There is a horseman behind,” says he. “What does he there?”
“’Tis a traveler, your honor,” says I, “that goes, no doubt, by our road, and is bound for London.”
“He shall be bound for hell,” says he tipsily, and falls back again.
The horses wound up foot by foot and emerged now into a space of better light, and I looked around, and there was Grubbe, with his head through the window and his eyes cast backward.
“What fool is this,” says he, “that rides so awkwardly, and drives a spare horse? If he ride no better, I will ask him to keep me company, if he be a gentleman. Many gentlemen have rode along of me, and have rode to the gallows tree,” and he chuckled harshly.
“Maybe he will ride with you to the Gallows Gate, sir,” says I.
“Why, Crossway,” says he, laughing loudly, “you have turned a wit,” and once more withdrew his head.