glut no more the curiosity of the crowd.  He would never stand in the prisoner’s dock, or be consigned again to stone walls.  The gossips should have a dead man’s face to gaze at, and welcome; they might make what sport they pleased of that, but not again of his living agony.  Then, instead of his being Solomon’s murderer, he would be his victim.  To judge by his present feeling, thought Richard, bitterly, this man would not enjoy his triumph even then.  Revenge, as his mother had once told him, was like a game of battle-door—­it is never certain who gets the last stroke.  If Solomon was now dead, starved skeleton or rat-eaten corpse as he might be, Richard felt that he would still have had the advantage over him.

“What is it?  Why are we stopping?” cried he, frantically, as the man pulled up on the top of a hill.

“Let me breathe the horses for an instant,” pleaded the driver; “we shall gain time in the end.”

“How far are we still from Gethin?” inquired Richard, impatiently.

“In time, two hours, Sir, for the road is bad, though me and the horses will do our best; but the distance is scarce twelve miles.  Do you see that black thing out to seaward yonder?  That’s the castled rock.  He stands out fine against the sunset, don’t he?”

“Yes, yes; make haste;” and on they sped again at a gallop.

Within a mile or two of this spot Richard had first caught sight of that same object twenty years ago.  The occasion flashed upon him with every minutest circumstance, even to the fact of how hungry he had been at the moment.  The world was all before him then, and life was young.  Now, prematurely aged, his interest centred in three human beings, and one of those was his bitter enemy.

The dusk thickened into dark; and the tired horses—­for the stage had been a very long one—­made but slow way.

“Faster! faster!” was Richard’s constant cry, till the brow of the last hill was gained, and the scanty lights of Gethin showed themselves.  Then it suddenly struck him for the first time what unnecessary speed had been made.  Why, this man, Solomon, strong and inured to privation, had, after all, been but eight-and-forty hours in the mine, and would surely be alive, unless the rats had killed him.  Where had he somewhere read of a strong man overpowered in a single night by a legion of rats, and discovered a heap of clean-picked bones by morning?

The inn, as usual at that season, showed few signs of life; but there were some half dozen miners drinking at the bar.

“Keep those men,” said Richard to the inn-keeper; for Solomon had long delegated that office to another, though his own name was still over the door, and the Gethin Castle was still his home.  “I shall want their help to-night.”

“Their help, Sir?” said the astonished landlord.

“Yes; but say nothing for the present.  Bring me a bottle of brandy and some meat—­cold chicken, if you have it; then let me have a word with you.”