"Pett Level. We happen to have got the other side of De Rothan's game, and bought his own man over his head."
"There'll be a boat waiting."
"There'll be no boat, or I'm a blockhead."
Jeremy gave a queer, hard laugh.
"Now, then, put 'em at it, boys. Tally-ho, tally-ho. I'm for the brush of the French fox."
And they went galloping through the moonlight.
[XXXIX]
De Rothan seemed to know all the lanes, paths, and by-roads as though he had been born in those parts and had played the smuggler on many a night. He cast a half circle round Westfield village, and took the road that led toward Icklesham and Guestling, riding a little ahead of his men, his right arm supporting Nance. She was still smothered up in the blanket, and unable to move her arms.
The country was fairly open, with the road climbing low hills and dropping down into valleys. The moon painted everything in a broad effect of black and greys, and showed the road as a white thread before them. De Rothan was not playing for concealment. It was a question of speed, and of a dash for the shore along Pett Level where the Rye boat would be waiting to take them on board.
When they had covered a mile or more De Rothan pulled up on the top of a hill, looked back, and listened. His men drew in and waited in silence. The night seemed still and empty of all sound, and there was no rattle of hoofs to tell of pursuit.