Some foreboding beset me, and I was once close to a full mind for going back, and slacked Cynthia’s pace to a trot.  But the thought of the pleasures at Upper Marlboro’ and the hope of overtaking the party at Mr. Dorsey’s place, over the Patuxent, where they looked to dine, decided me in pushing on.  And thus we came to South River, with the snow so thick that we could scarce see ten yards in front of us.

Beyond, the road winds up the hill’around the end of Mr. Wiley’s plantation and plunges shortly into the woods, gray and cold indeed to-day.  At their skirt a trail branches off which leads to Mr. Whey’s warehouses, on the water’s edge a mile or so below.  And I marked that this path was freshly trodden.  I recall a small shock of surprise at this, for the way was used only in the early autumn to connect with some fields beyond the hill.  And then I heard a sharp cry from Hugo and pulled Cynthia short.  He was some ten paces behind me.

“Marse Dick!” he shouted, the whites of his eyes rolled up.  “We’se gwine to be robbed, Marse Dick.”  And he pointed to the footprints in the snow; “somefin done tole Hugo not come to-day.”

“Nonsense!” I cried; “Mr. Wiley is making his lazy beggars cut wood against Christmas.”

When in this temper the poor fellow had more fear of me than of aught else, and he closed up to my horse’s flank, glancing apprehensively to the right and left, his teeth rattling.  We went at a brisk trot.  We know not, indeed, how to account for many things in this world, for with. each beat of Cynthia’s feet I found myself repeating the words South River and Marlboro, and seeking in my mind a connection to something gone before.  Then, like a sudden gust of wind, comes to me that strange talk between Grafton and the rector, overheard by old Harvey in the stables at Carvel Hall.  And Cynthia’s ears were pointing forward.

With a quick impulse I loosed the lower frogs of my coat, for my sword was buckled beneath, and was reaching for one of the brace of pistols in my saddle-bags.  I had but released them when Hugo cried out:  “Gawd, Marse Dick, run for yo’ life!” and I caught a glimpse of him flying down the road.  As I turned a shot rang out, Cynthia reared high with a rough brute of a fellow clinging to her bridle.  I sent my charge full into his chest, and as he tumbled in the snow I dug my spurs to the rowels.

What happened then is still a blurred picture in my brain.  I know that Cynthia was shot from under me before she had taken her leap, and we fell heavily together.  And I was scarcely up again and my sword drawn, when the villains were pressing me from all sides.  I remember spitting but one, and then I heard a great seafaring oath, the first word out of their mouths, and I was felled from behind with a mighty blow.

THE “BLACK MOLL”

CHAPTER XVIII