‘Horses or no horses, we must get to Bath,’ Sir George answered feverishly.

On this the servant made an attempt to drag Sir George’s mount from the ditch, but the poor beast would not budge, and in the darkness it was impossible to discover whether it was wounded or not.  Mr. Fishwick’s was dead lame; the man’s had wandered away.  It proved that there was nothing for it but to walk.  Dejectedly, the three took the road and trudged wearily through the darkness.  They would reach Bathford village, the man believed, in a mile and a half.

That settled, not a word was said, for who could give any comfort?  Now and then, as they plodded up the hill beyond Kingsdown, the servant uttered a low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr. Fishwick sighed in sheer exhaustion.  It was a strange and dreary position for men whose ordinary lives ran through the lighted places of the world.  The wind swept sadly over the dark fields.  The mud clung to the squelching, dragging boots; now Mr. Fishwick was within an ace of the ditch on one side, now on the other, and now he brought up heavily against one of his companions.  At length the servant gave him an arm, and thus linked together they reached the crest of the hill, and after taking a moment to breathe, began the descent.

They were within two or three hundred paces of Bathford and the bridge over the Avon when the servant cried out that some one was awake in the village, for he saw a light.  A little nearer and all saw the light, which grew larger as they approached but was sometimes obscured.  Finally, when they were within a hundred yards of it, they discovered that it proceeded not from a window but from a lanthorn set down in the village street, and surrounded by five or six persons whose movements to and fro caused the temporary eclipses they noticed.  What the men were doing was not at once clear; but in the background rose the dark mass of a post-chaise, and seeing that—­and one other thing—­Sir George uttered a low exclamation and felt for his hilt.

The other thing was Mr. Dunborough, who, seated at his ease on the step of the post-chaise, appeared to be telling a story, while he nursed his injured arm.  His audience, who seemed to have been lately roused from their beds—­for they were half-dressed—­were so deeply engrossed in what he was narrating that the approach of our party was unnoticed; and Sir George was in the middle of the circle, his hand on the speaker’s shoulder, and his point at his breast, before a man could move in his defence.

‘You villain!’ Soane cried, all the misery, all the labour, all the fears of the night turning his blood to fire, ’you shall pay me now!  Let a man stir, and I will spit you like the dog you are!  Where is she?  Where is she?  For, by Heaven, if you do not give her up, I will kill you with my own hand!’

Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other’s face, laughed.

That laugh startled Sir George more than the fiercest movement, the wildest oath.  His point wavered and dropped.  ‘My God!’ he cried, staring at Dunborough.  ‘What is it?  What do you mean?’