A word from John Gore, who rode a little ahead, made Mr. Pepys perk up in the saddle.
“What—John—what?”
“A light over yonder.”
“God bless the smallest candle, John, that strives with this infernal darkness.”
They had come out from the wood, and could see far below them in a valley a faint glimmer of light. The ground seemed to fall away into a long sweep of vague gloom. The sky had become dark with clouds, and though they could see nothing but that faint spark of fire, they could hear the trees whispering and muttering not ten yards away.
“We had better make for the light.”
Mr. Pepys acquiesced fervently, the night growing raw and cold, and full of eerie sounds.
“I begin to think great things of Mr. Bunyan,” quoth he; “there is a sermon in yonder candle that makes me remember the responsibilities of my immortal soul.”
They rode down through the night, going very slowly, with the heavy sound of tired horses plodding over wet grass, and the wind blowing about them in restless gusts. They could see nothing but the glimmer of the light, nor could they even tell from what place it came, save that it most probably burned behind a casement because of its steadiness against the night.
They passed a few spectral trees that spread out into flat tops from short, knotted trunks. Then a vague, black mass seemed to rise against the opaque sky. Mr. Pepys, who had pushed on a few feet ahead, leaned forward in the saddle, straining his eyes to see what was before him. They had passed the trees by scarcely twenty paces when there was a sharp, scuffling sound, and the ring of something metallic against stone. John Gore saw the shadowy outline of horse and man swerve violently, and back past him over the grass. His beast carried Mr. Pepys into the boughs of a thorn-tree, yet, though tangled up with his periwig in his mouth, he managed to shout and warn John Gore.