“Poor man!” cried Mary Anerley, “what a hurry you are in.  But I suppose you cannot help it.  Are they shooting at you?”

The runaway nodded, for he could not spare a breath, but was deeply inhaling for another start, and could not even bow without hindrance.  But to show that he had manners, he took off his hat.  Then he clapped it on his head and set off again.

“Come back!” cried the maid; “I can show you a place.  I can hide you from your enemies forever.”

The young fellow stopped.  He was come to that pitch of exhaustion in which a man scarcely cares whether he is killed or dies.  And his face showed not a sign of fear.

“Look!  That little hole—­up there—­by the fern.  Up at once, and this cloth over you!”

He snatched it, and was gone, like the darting lizard, up a little puckering side issue of the Dike, at the very same instant that three broad figures and a long one appeared at the lip of the mouth.  The quick-witted girl rode on to meet them, to give the poor fugitive time to get into his hole and draw the brown skirt over him.  The dazzle of the sun, pouring over the crest, made the hollow a twinkling obscurity; and the cloth was just in keeping with the dead stuff around.  The three broad men, with heavy fusils cocked, came up from the sea-mouth of the Dike, steadily panting, and running steadily with a long-enduring stride.  Behind them a tall bony man with a cutlass was swinging it high in the air, and limping, and swearing with great velocity.

“Coast-riders,” thought Mary, “and he a free-trader [smuggler]!  Four against one is cowardice.”

“Halt!” cried the tall man, while the rest were running past her; “halt! ground arms; never scare young ladies.”  Then he flourished his hat, with a grand bow to Mary.  “Fair young Mistress Anerley, I fear we spoil your ride.  But his Majesty’s duty must be done.  Hats off, fellows, at the name of your king!  Mary, my dear, the most daring villain, the devil’s own son, has just run up here—­scarcely two minutes—­you must have seen him.  Wait a minute; tell no lies—­excuse me, I mean fibs.  Your father is the right sort.  He hates those scoundrels.  In the name of his Majesty, which way is he gone?”

“Was it—­oh, was it a man, if you please?  Captain Carroway, don’t say so.”

“A man?  Is it likely that we shot at a woman?  You are trifling.  It will be the worse for you.  Forgive me—­but we are in such a hurry.  Whoa! whoa! pony.”

“You always used to be so polite, sir, that you quite surprise me.  And those guns look so dreadful!  My father would be quite astonished to see me not even allowed to go down to the sea, but hurried back here, as if the French had landed.”

“How can I help it, if your pony runs away so?” For Mary all this time had been cleverly contriving to increase and exaggerate her pony’s fear, and so brought the gunners for a long way up the Dike, without giving them any time to spy at all about.  She knew that this was wicked from a loyal point of view; not a bit the less she did it.  “What a troublesome little horse it is!” she cried.  “O Captain Carroway, hold him just a moment.  I will jump down, and then you can jump up, and ride after all his Majesty’s enemies.”