"Bend low, bend low."
He forced her down, bending over her as the horse passed through the doorway into the porch. There was a clatter of hoofs, the breath of the night breeze sweeping in. Then Nance felt De Rothan straighten himself in the saddle. They were going at a walk down the brick path to the gate in the garden wall.
Then, suddenly, the horse broke into wild, cantering life. They seemed to sweep forward with a rush of wind, and a clattering of hoofs behind them. A man shouted somewhere, and was still shouting as they galloped over the meadow. A pistol cracked. Nance heard a queer sighing sound go by her and die away into the distance.
De Rothan gave a sharp, exultant cry. The horse slowed up. Nance felt De Rothan bend and swing something aside. It was the gate leading out of the meadow into the lane. Shuffling, snorting horses came crowding up behind. Then there was the burst of a fresh gallop between high black hedges that banked out the moonlight.
[XXXVIII]
Smoke curled from the muzzle of Surgeon Stott's empty pistol, and his mouth emptied itself of sundry emphatic curses. He shouted at Tom Stook, who was standing and staring across the meadow.
"Run, man, run! Rouse Mr. Winter."
But Jeremy had been roused a minute ago by the sentinel in the orchard, who had bent over him where he lay asleep under an apple-tree and pulled him by the arm.
"Mr. Winter, sir, Mr. Winter, the house be a' fire."
Jeremy had sprung up, to find the man pointing at the attic story of the Brick House.