“Have they gone?” he panted. “I can’t find another horse in town.”
“Where is it to?” sputtered the German.
“Have they gone, I say?”
Hans gasped.
“Yes, to be sure.”
“They’ll never make it.” The blacksmith mopped his brow with conviction. “He has an hour’s start.”
Hans grasped the big man by the coat.
“Who is too late?” he emphasized. “Where are they going?”
Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes.
“Is it possible you don’t understand? It’s to Ichabod Maurice’s they’re going, to tell him of Arnold.” The speaker mopped his face 230 anew. “It’s useless though. They’re too late,” he completed.