'
'Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters, swear that I took
you prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own lips; for
as I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them, nor
shall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night.
Up here--behind me--quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fear
nothing.'
In an instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud of
dust, and speeding on, like hunters in a dream.
It was well the good horse knew the road he traversed, for never
once--no, never once in all the journey--did Mr Haredale cast his eyes
upon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the light towards
which they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, 'It is my house,'
but that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and doubtful
places, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold him
more securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixed
on the fire, then, and always.
The road was dangerous enough, for they went the nearest
way--headlong--far from the highway--by lonely lanes and paths, where
waggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed in
the narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made it
profoundly dark.
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