When they reached the heath, Tom shook off his sulkiness, and surveying the scene, called out:
“Look here, monsieur; here's a famous place for a steeple-chase!”
“A fine place, indeed!” observed Zephyrus. “I should say you could here have all the dangers you desire.”
“I wouldn't advise you to try the heath, Mr. Tom,” observed Laura. “Sir Leycester Barfleur lost his life in that dreadful quagmire.”
“But a capital foot-race might be run on the hard turf,” said Tom. “How say you, monsieur? Shall we have a trial of speed? Half a mile for half a sov'rin'?”
“Shall I run, mademoiselle?” said Zephyrus.
Laura gave him a look, as much as to say, “By all means; you'll beat him!”
“Agreed!” cried Zephyrus. “Mademoiselle Laura shall hold the stakes, and decide.”
So saying, he placed a small piece of gold in her hand, his example being followed by Tom.
“Our mark shall be yonder tree,” said Zephyrus, pointing to the shattered oak near which the ladies had been robbed by the gipsies.