But his listeners were away again; the old man’s words were lost in the scramble and clatter of the horses’ shoes as they sprang forward.  In a moment the stillness and the dark shapes of the houses were exchanged for the open country, the rush of wind in the riders’ faces, and the pounding of hoofs on the hard road.  For a brief while the sky cleared and the moon shone out, and they rode as easily as in the day.  At the pace at which they were moving Sir George calculated that they must come up with the fugitives in an hour or less; but the reckoning was no sooner made than the horses, jaded by the heavy ground through which they had struggled, began to flag and droop their heads; the pace grew less and less; and though Sir George whipped and spurred, Corsham Corner was reached, and Pickwick Village on the Bath road, and still they saw no chaise ahead.

It was past midnight, and it seemed to some that they had been riding an eternity; yet even these roused at sight of the great western highway.  The night coaches had long gone eastwards, and the road, so busy by day, stretched before them dim, shadowy, and empty, as solitary in the darkness as the remotest lane.  But the knowledge that Bath lay at the end of it—­and no more than nine miles away—­and that there they could procure aid, fresh horses and willing helpers, put new life even into the most weary.  Even Mr. Fishwick, now groaning with fatigue and now crying ‘Oh dear! oh dear!’ as he bumped, in a way that at another time must have drawn laughter from a stone, took heart of grace; while Sir George settled down to a dogged jog that had something ferocious in its determination.  If he could not trot, he would amble; if he could not amble, he would walk; if his horse could not walk, he would go on his feet.  He still kept eye and ear bent forward, but in effect he had given up hope of overtaking the quarry before it reached Bath; and he was taken by surprise when the servant, who rode first and had eased his horse to a walk at the foot of Haslebury Hill, drew rein and cried to the others to listen.

For a moment the heavy breathing of the four horses covered all other sounds.  Then in the darkness and the distance, on the summit of the rise before them, a wheel creaked as it grated over a stone.  A few seconds and the sound was repeated; then all was silent.  The chaise had passed over the crest and was descending the other side.

Oblivious of everything except that Julia was within his reach, forgetful even of Dunborough by whose side he had ridden all night—­in silence but with many a look askance—­Sir George drove his horse forward, scrambled and trotted desperately up the hill, and, gaining the summit a score of yards in front of his companions, crossed the brow and drew rein to listen.  He had not been mistaken.  He could hear the wheels creaking, and the wheelers stumbling and slipping in the darkness below him; and with a cry he launched his horse down the descent.