The gun-room in the George is about twelve feet square.  It projects into the stable-yard and commands a full view of the old coach-house; and, through a narrow side window, a flanking view of the back door of the inn, through which the yard is reached.

Tony Turnbull took down the blunderbuss—­which was the great ordnance of the house—­and loaded it with a stiff charge of pistol bullets.

He put on a great-coat which hung there, and was his covering when he went out at night, to shoot wild ducks.  Tom made himself comfortable likewise.  They then sat down at the window, which was open, looking into the yard, the opposite side of which was white in the brilliant moonlight.

The landlord laid the blunderbuss across his knees, and stared into the yard.  His comrade stared also.  The door of the gun-room was locked; so they felt tolerably secure.

An hour passed; nothing had occurred.  Another.  The clock struck one.  The shadows had shifted a little; but still the moon shone full on the old coach-house, and the stable where the guest’s horse stood.

Turnbull thought he heard a step on the back-stair.  Tom was watching the back-door through the side window, with eyes glazing with the intensity of his stare.  Anthony Turnbull, holding his breath, listened at the room door.  It was a false alarm.

When he came back to the window looking into the yard: 

“Hish!  Look thar!” said he in a vehement whisper.

From the shadow at the left they saw the figure of the gaunt horseman, in short cloak and jack-boots, emerge.  He pushed open the stable door, and led out his powerful black horse.  He walked it across the front of the building till he reached the old coach-house door; and there, with its bridle on its neck, he left it standing, while he stalked to the yard gate; and, dealing it a kick with his heel, it sprang back with the rebound, shaking from top to bottom, and stood open.  The stranger returned to the side of his horse; and the door which secured the corpse of the dead sexton seemed to swing slowly open of itself as he entered, and returned with the corpse in his arms, and swung it across the shoulders of the horse, and instantly sprang into the saddle.

“Fire!” shouted Tom, and bang went the blunderbuss with a stunning crack.  A thousand sparrows’ wings winnowed through the air from the thick ivy.  The watch-dog yelled a furious bark.  There was a strange ring and whistle in the air.  The blunderbuss had burst to shivers right down to the very breech.  The recoil rolled the inn-keeper upon his back on the floor, and Tom Scales was flung against the side of the recess of the window, which had saved him from a tumble as violent.  In this position they heard the searing laugh of the departing horseman, and saw him ride out of the gate with his ghastly burden.

* * * * *

Perhaps some of my readers, like myself, have heard this story told by Roger Turnbull, now host of the George and Dragon, the grandson of the very Tony who then swayed the spigot and keys of that inn, in the identical kitchen of which the fiend treated so many of the neighbours to punch.