_Cramped boxes_ 'ware, all's right and fair,

_Barred balls_ I _bar_ when goaded;

The deuce an ace is out of place!

The deuce a die is _loaded_!

Then make your game,

Your color name;

Success attend the _Greek_, pals.

"Bravo, Jerry--bravissimo!" chorused the party.

"And now, pals, farewell!--a long farewell!" said Dick, in a tone of

theatrical valediction. "As I said before, the best friends must

separate. We may soon meet again, or we now may part forever. We cannot

command our luck; but we can make the best of the span allotted to us.

You have your game to play. I have mine. May each of us meet with the

success he deserves."

"Egad! I hope not," said King. "I'm afraid, in that case, the chances

would be against us."

"Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," rejoined

Dick. "I have only to observe one thing more, namely, that I must insist

upon standing Sam upon the present occasion. Not a word. I won't hear a

syllable. Landlord, I say--what oh!" continued Dick, stepping out of the

arbor. "Here, my old Admiral of the White, what's the reckoning?--what's

to pay, I say?"

"Let ye know directly, sir," replied mine host of the Falstaff.

"Order my horse--the black mare," added Dick.

"And mine," said King, "the sorrel colt. I'll ride with you a mile or

two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon something."

"Very likely."

"We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, "if nothing

happens."

"Agreed," responded Juniper.

"What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?" said the Magus,

taking his everlasting pipe from his lips.

Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of the

implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on the green.

It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and glowed

like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighboring elm.

Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by this glorious

sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was that a shade of

inexpressible melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he

gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-the Hill, which, lying to the west

of the green upon which they walked, stood out with its pointed spire

and lofty college against the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed

the passing emotion.

"What ails you, Tom?" said he, with much kindness of manner--"are you

not well, lad?"

"Yes, I am well enough," said King; "I know not what came over me, but

looking at Harrow, I thought of my school days, and what I was _then_,

and that bright prospect reminded me of my boyish hopes."

"Tut--tut," said Dick, "this is idle--you are a man now."

"I know I am," replied Tom, "but I _have_ been a boy. Had I any faith in

presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I shall ever see."

"Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. "I've no presentiment that

this is the last bill I shall ever pay."

The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's conduct

was singular, and awakened his suspicions.

"Are our horses ready?" asked Dick, quickly.

"They are, sir," said the landlord.

"Let us be gone," whispered Dick to King; "I don't like this fellow's

manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up at the inn door just

now--there may be danger. Be fly!" added he to Jerry and the Magus.

"Now, sir," said he to the landlord, "lead the way. Keep on the alert,

Tom."

Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They watched their

comrades; and listened intently for any manifestation of alarm.

_CHAPTER III_

_A SURPRISE_

Was this well done, Jenny?--_Captain Macheath._

While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling-green, we will see

what has taken place outside the inn. Tom's presentiments of danger were

not, it appeared, without foundation. Scarcely had the ostler brought

forth our two highwaymen's steeds, when a post-chaise, escorted by two

or three horsemen, drove furiously up to the door. The sole occupant of

the carriage was a lady, whose slight and pretty figure was all that

could be distinguished, her face being closely veiled. The landlord, who

was busied in casting up Turpin's account, rushed forth at the summons.

A word or two passed between him and the horsemen, upon which the

former's countenance fell. He posted in the direction of the garden; and

the horsemen instantly dismounted.

"We have him now, sure enough," said one of them, a very small man, who

looked, in his boots, like Buckle equipped for the Oaks.

"By the powers! I begin to think so," replied the other horseman. "But

don't spoil all, Mr. Coates, by being too precipitate."

"Never fear that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates; for it was the gallant

attorney: "he's sure to come for his mare. That's a _trap_ certain to

catch him, eh, Mr. Paterson? With the chief constable of Westminster to

back us, the devil's in it if we are not a match for him."

"And for Tom King, too," replied the chief constable; "since his

blowen's peached, the game's up with him, too. We've long had an eye

upon him, and now we'll have a finger. He's one of your dashing trouts

to whom we always give a long line, but we'll _land_ him this time,

anyhow. If you'll look after Dick Turpin, gemmen, I'll make sure of

Tom."

"I'd rather you would help _us_, Mr. Paterson," said Coates; "never mind

Tom King; another time will do for him."

"No such thing," said Paterson; "one _weighs_ just as much for that

matter as t'other. I'll take Tom to myself, and surely you two, with the

landlord and ostler, can manage Turpin amongst you."

"I don't know that," said Coates, doubtfully; "he's a devil of a fellow

to deal with."

"Take him quietly," said Paterson. "Draw the chaise out of the way, lad.

Take our tits to one side, and place their nags near the door, ostler.

Shall you be able to see him, ma'am, where you are?" asked the chief

constable, walking to the carriage, and touching his hat to the lady

within. Having received a satisfactory nod from the bonnet and veil, he

returned to his companions. "And now, gemmen," added he, "let's step

aside a little. Don't use your fire-arms too soon."

As if conscious of what was passing around her, and of the danger that

awaited her master, Black Bess exhibited so much impatience, and plunged

so violently, that it was with difficulty the ostler could hold her.

"The devil's in the mare," said he; "what's the matter with her? She was

quiet enough a few minutes since. Soho! lass, stand."

Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the house, preceded

by the host, who conducted them, and not without some inward

trepidation, towards the door. Arrived there, each man rushed swiftly to

his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an instant, and stamping her foot

on the ostler's leg, Black Bess compelled the man, yelling with pain, to

quit his hold of the bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before

he could mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, which startled the

animal, and caused him to swerve, so that Tom lost his footing in the

stirrup, and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by Paterson,

and a struggle commenced, King endeavoring, but in vain, to draw a

pistol.

"Flip him,[108] Dick; fire, or I'm taken," cried King. "Fire! damn you,

why don't you fire?" shouted he, in desperation, still struggling

vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong man, and more than a match

for a light weight like King.

"I can't," cried Dick; "I shall hit you, if I fire."

"Take your chance," shouted King. "Is _this_ your friendship?"

Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve of Paterson's

coat, but did not wound him.

"Again!" cried King. "Shoot him, I say. Don't you hear me? Fire again!"

Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for both

Coates and Tyrconnel had fired upon him, and were now mounting their

steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin could take sure aim;

added to which, in the struggle, Paterson and King were each moment

changing their relative positions. He, however, would no longer

hesitate, but again, at his friend's request, fired. The ball lodged

itself in King's breast! He fell at once. At this instant a shriek was

heard from the chaise: the window was thrown open, and her thick veil

being drawn aside, the features of a very pretty female, now impressed

with terror and contrition, were suddenly exhibited.

King fixed his glazing eyes upon her.

"Susan!" sighed he, "is it you that I behold?"

"Yes, yes, 'tis she, sure enough," said Paterson. "You see, ma'am, what

you and such like have brought him to. However, you'll lose your reward;

he's going fast enough."

"Reward!" gasped King; "reward! Did she betray me?"

"Ay, ay, sir," said Paterson, "she blowed the gaff, if it's any

consolation to you to know it."

"Consolation!" repeated the dying man; "perfidious!--oh!--the

prophecy--my best friend--Turpin--I die by his hand."

And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and expired.

Alas, poor Tom!

"Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!" cried Coates; "leave the landlord to look

after the body of that dying ruffian, and mount with us in pursuit of

the living rascal. Come, sir; quick! mount! despatch! You see he is

yonder; he seems to hesitate; we shall have him now."

"Well, gemmen, I'm ready," said Paterson; "but how the devil came you to

let him escape?"

"Saint Patrick only knows!" said Titus; "he's as slippery as an

eel--and, like a cat, turn him which way you will, he is always sure to

alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder but we lose him now, after all,

though he has such a small start. That mare flies like the wind."

"He shall have a tight run for it, at all events," said Paterson,

putting spurs into his horse. "I've got a good nag under me, and you are

neither of you badly mounted. He's only three hundred yards before us,

and the devil's in it if we can't run him down. It's a three hundred

pound job, Mr. Coates, and well worth a race."

"You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take him," said

Coates, urging his steed forward.

"Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we'll make sure of

him," said the constable. "Gently, gently, not so fast up the hill--you

see he's breathing his horse. All in good time, Mr. Coates--all in good

time, sir."

And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered leisurely up

the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall now return to Turpin.

Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick remained for a

few moments irresolute; he perceived that King was mortally wounded, and

that all attempts at rescue would be fruitless; he perceived, likewise,

that Jerry and the Magus had effected their escape from the

bowling-green, as he could detect their figures stealing along the

hedge-side. He hesitated no longer. Turning his horse, he galloped

slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with which he was threatened.

"Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; "but little did I think that I

really should turn poor Tom's executioner. To the devil with this

rascally snapper," cried he, throwing the pistol over the hedge. "I

could never have used it again. 'Tis strange, too, that he should have

foretold his own fate--devilish strange! And then that he should have

been betrayed by the very blowen he trusted! that's a lesson, if I

wanted any. But trust a woman!--not I, the length of my little finger."

_CHAPTER IV_

_THE HUE AND CRY_

Six gentlemen upon the road

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,

They raised the hue and cry:

Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!

Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way

Did join in the pursuit.

_John Gilpin._

Arrived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful view of the

country surrounding the metropolis is obtained,[109] Turpin turned for

an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. Coates and Titus he utterly

disregarded; but Paterson was a more formidable foe, and he well knew

that he had to deal with a man of experience and resolution. It was

then, for the first time, that the thoughts of executing his

extraordinary ride to York first flashed across him; his bosom throbbed

high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised

himself in the saddle, "By God! I will do it!"

He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a world of

trees beneath him; and as his quick eye ranged over the magnificent

prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not help thinking of

Tom King's last words. "Poor fellow!" thought Dick, "he said truly. He

will never see another sunset." Aroused by the approaching clatter of

his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane which lies on the right of the

road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, and set off at a good pace in the

direction of Hampstead.

"Now," cried Paterson, "put your tits to it, my boys. We must not lose

sight of him for a second in these lanes."

Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconveniencing his

mare in this early stage of the business, and as the ground was still

upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative distances.

At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and devious

lane; after scaring one or two farmers, and riding over a brood or two

of ducks; dipping into the verdant valley of West End, and ascending

another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsy, sandy, and beautiful heath of

Hampstead. Shaping his course to the left, Dick then made for the lower

part of the heath, and skirted a path that leads towards North End,

passing the furze-crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of

lofty pines.

It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest. Being

open ground, the pursued and pursuers were in full view of each other;

and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the shouting trio hard

at his heels, the scene had a very animated appearance. He crossed the

hill--the Hendon Road--passed Crackskull Common--and dashed along the

cross road to Highgate.

Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers; they had not lost

ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and much spurring was

required to maintain their position. As they approached Highgate, Dick

slackened his pace, and the other party redoubled their efforts. To

avoid the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and rode

easily down the hill.

His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to him to

stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their further progress,

Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beautiful style. Not so

with Coates's party; and the time they lost in unfastening the gate,

which none of them chose to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space

betwixt them. It did not, however, appear to be his intention altogether

to outstrip his pursuers: the chase seemed to give him excitement, which

he was willing to prolong as much as was consistent with his safety.

Scudding rapidly past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with

three lumbering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a

narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey. The

shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and as he

neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its name from Du-Val,

and in which a house frequented by that gayest of robbers stands, or

stood, "A highwayman! a highwayman!" rang in his ears, in a discordant

chorus of many voices.

The whole neighborhood was alarmed by the cries, and by the tramp of

horses: the men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize the fugitive,

and women held up their babes to catch a glimpse of the flying

cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation as it advanced.

Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road--they hear the uproar and the

din. "A highwayman! a highwayman!" cry the voices: "stop him, stop him!"

But it is no such easy matter. With a pistol in each hand, and his

bridle in his teeth, Turpin passed boldly on. His fierce looks--his

furious steed--the impetus with which he pressed forward, bore down all

before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the list of

his pursuers.

"We have him now--we have him now!" cried Paterson, exultingly. "Shout

for your lives. The turnpike man will hear us. Shout again--again! The

fellow has heard it. The gate is shut. We have him. Ha, ha!"

The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de-frise on the

upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung into its lock, and,

like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of the turnpike trusts,

ensconced within his doorway, held himself in readiness to spring upon

the runaway. But Dick kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height

of the gate; he looked to the right and to the left--nothing better

offered; he spoke a few words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted

her neck, then struck his spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes

by an inch. Out rushed the amazed turnpike man, thus unmercifully

bilked, and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Paterson's

horse.

"Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious," shouted the chief

constable.

"Not I," said the man, sturdily, "unless I gets my dues. I've been done

once already. But strike me stupid if I'm done a second time."

"Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? Don't you know that I'm chief

constable of Westminster?" said Paterson, showing his staff. "How dare

you oppose me in the discharge of my duty?"

"That may be, or it may not be," said the man, doggedly. "But you don't

pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the long and short on it."

Amidst a storm of oaths, Coates flung down a crown piece, and the gate

was thrown open.

Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare; and, striking

into a by-lane at Duckett's Green, cantered easily along in the

direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him. Yelling like a

pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again at his heels. He had

now to run the gauntlet of the long straggling town of Tottenham, and

various were the devices of the populace to entrap him. The whole place

was up in arms, shouting, screaming, running, dancing, and hurling every

possible description of missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily

responded to their clamor as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats

that were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around him.

A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and before the chase

reached Edmonton most of them were "_nowhere_." Here fresh relays were

gathered, and a strong field was again mustered. John Gilpin himself

could not have excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of

Edmonton, than did our highwayman as he galloped through their town.

Unlike the men of Tottenham, the mob received him with acclamations,

thinking, no doubt, that, like "the citizens of famous London town," he

rode for a wager. Presently, however, borne on the wings of the blast,

came the cries of "Turpin! Dick Turpin!" and the hurrahs were changed to

hootings; but such was the rate at which our highwayman rode, that no

serious opposition could be offered to him.

A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, drew himself up in

the middle of the road. Turpin treated him as he had done the _dub_ at

the _knapping jigger_, and cleared the driver and his little wain with

ease. This was a capital stroke, and well adapted to please the

multitude, who are ever taken with a brilliant action. "Hark away,

Dick!" resounded on all hands, while hisses were as liberally bestowed

upon his pursuers.

_CHAPTER V_

_THE SHORT PIPE_

The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them, at a

gallop, throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a

bag of loose tobacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of

Indian corn, make a cigar, and then take out a flint and steel and

light it.

HEAD'S _Rough Notes_.

Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skimmingly, like

eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. All were well mounted,

and the horses, now thoroughly warmed, had got into their paces, and did

their work beautifully. None of Coates's party lost ground, but they

maintained it at the expense of their steeds, which were streaming like

water-carts, while Black Bess had scarcely turned a hair.

Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he was _the_ crack

rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of any time. The craft and

mystery of jockeyship was not so well understood in the eighteenth as it

is in the nineteenth century; men treated their horses differently, and

few rode them as well as many ride now, when every youngster takes to

the field as naturally as if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was

a glorious exception to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode

wonderfully lightly, yet sat his saddle to perfection, distributing the

weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure; he

yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it were,

part and parcel of itself; he took care Bess should be neither strained

nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as a feather, was she borne along;

beautiful was it to see her action--to watch her style and temper of

covering the ground; and many a first-rate Meltonian might have got a

wrinkle from Turpin's seat and conduct.

We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to _ride away_ from

his pursuers--he could have done that at any moment. He liked the fun of

the chase, and would have been sorry to put a period to his own

excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept her at such speed as

should put his pursuers completely _to it_, without in the slightest

degree inconveniencing himself. Some judgment of the speed at which they

went may be formed, when we state that little better than an hour had

elapsed and nearly twenty miles had been ridden over. "Not bad

travelling that," methinks we hear the reader exclaim.

"By the mother that bore me," said Titus, as they went along in this

slapping style--Titus, by-the-by, rode a big, Roman-nosed, powerful

horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a plentiful

exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action, and keep his

rider alongside his companions--"by the mother that bore me," said he,

almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his

calves, after the Irish fashion, "if the fellow isn't lighting his pipe!

I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, and there he goes like a smoky

chimney on a frosty morning! See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the

pipe in his mouth! Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?"

"Wait awhile, sir--wait awhile," said Coates; "we'll smoke _him_

by-and-by."

Pæans have been sung in honor of the Peons of the Pampas by the

_Head_long Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols so loudly in

the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a cigar when in mid

career, was accomplished with equal ease by our English highwayman a

hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat

either. Flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick's ample

pouch, the short pipe was at hand, and within a few seconds there was a

stream of vapor exhaling from his lips, like the smoke from a steamboat

shooting down the river, and tracking his still rapid course through the

air.

"I'll let 'em see what I think of 'em!" said Dick, coolly, as he turned

his head.

It was now gray twilight. The mists of coming night were weaving a thin

curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All the sounds and hum of

that delicious hour were heard, broken only by the regular clatter of

the horses' hoofs. Tired of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way

in deep silence; each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel

deep, into his horse; but the animals were already at the top of their

speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard

rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest

followed as they might.

Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene would

have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks were winging

their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an ancient mansion to

the right; the bat was on the wing; the distant lowing of a herd of kine

saluted the ear at intervals; the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman,

and the merry chime of waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But

these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful,

were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled

to the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and

fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake.

On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life. Again they

gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed in stopping the

fugitive. But Dick was already by his side. "Harkee, my tulip," cried

he, taking the pipe from his mouth as he passed, "tell my friends behind

they will hear of me at York."

"What did he say?" asked Paterson, coming up the next moment.

"That you'll find him at York," replied the waggoner.

"At York!" echoed Coates, in amaze.

Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged with might

and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him until, within a short

distance of Ware, they beheld him at the door of a little public house,

standing with his bridle in his hand, coolly quaffing a tankard of ale.

No sooner were they in sight, than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and

rode off.

"Devil seize you, sir! why didn't you stop him?" exclaimed Paterson, as

he rode up. "My horse is dead lame. I cannot go any further. Do you know

what a prize you have missed? Do you know who that was?"

"No, sir, I don't," said the publican. "But I know he gave his mare more

ale than he took himself, and he has given me a guinea instead of a

shilling. He's a regular good 'un."

"A good 'un!" said Paterson; "it was Turpin, the notorious highwayman.

We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses? our cattle are all

blown."

"You'll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. I'm sorry I can't

accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I wish you a very good

evening, sir." Saying which, the publican retreated to his domicile.

"That's a flash crib, I'll be bound," said Paterson. "I'll chalk you

down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far we're done, Mr. Coates.

But curse me if I give it in. I'll follow him to the world's end first."

"Right, sir--right," said the attorney. "A very proper spirit, Mr.

Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty were you to act

otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr. Paterson--Christopher, or

Kit Coates; a name as well known at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's.

You recollect him--eh?"

"Perfectly well, sir," replied the chief constable.

"The greatest thief-taker, though I say it," continued Coates, "on

record. I inherit all his zeal--all his ardor. Come along, sir. We shall

have a fine moon in an hour--bright as day. To the post-house! to the

post-house!"

Accordingly to the post-house they went; and, with as little delay as

circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, accompanied by a

postilion, the party again pursued their onward course, encouraged to

believe they were still in the right scent.

Night had now spread her mantle over the earth; still it was not wholly

dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep, cloudless heavens, and a

pearly radiance in the eastern horizon heralded the rising of the orb of

night. A gentle breeze was stirring; the dews of evening had already

fallen; and the air felt bland and dry. It was just the night one would

have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and

to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared

little less than heavenly.

Full of ardor and excitement, determined to execute what he had mentally

undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. Everything was favorable

to his project; the roads were in admirable condition, his mare was in

like order; she was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town

to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in

more perfect training. "She has now got her wind in her," said Dick;

"I'll see what she can do--hark away, lass--hark away! I wish they could

see her now," added he, as he felt her almost fly away with him.

Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess started forward at

a pace which few horses could have equalled, and scarcely any have

sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent

action, felt electrified at the speed with which he was borne along.

"Bravo! bravo!" shouted he, "hark away, Bess!"

The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing rang with his

shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs; and thus he held his way,

while, in the words of the ballad,

Fled past, on right and left, how fast,

Each forest, grove, and bower;

On right and left, fled past, how fast,

Each city, town, and tower.

_CHAPTER VI_

_BLACK BESS_

_Dauphin._ I will not change my horse with any that treads but on

four pasterns. _Ca, ha!_ He bounds from the earth as if his entrails

were hairs; _le cheval volant_, the Pegasus _qui a les narines de

feu_! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air;

the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is

more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

SHAKESPEARE: _Henry V., Act III._

Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the Fourth Book of this

Romance, we may, perhaps, be pardoned for expatiating a little in this

place upon her birth, parentage, breeding, appearance, and attractions.

And first as to her pedigree; for in the horse, unlike the human

species, nature has strongly impressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is

the real aristocrat, and the pure blood that flows in the veins of the

gallant steed will infallibly be transmitted, if his mate be suitable,

throughout all his line. Bess was no _cock-tail_. She was thorough-bred;

she boasted blood in every bright and branching vein:

If blood can give nobility,

A noble steed was she;

Her sire was blood, and blood her dam,

And all her pedigree.

As to her pedigree. Her sire was a desert Arab, renowned in his day, and

brought to this country by a wealthy traveller; her dam was an English

racer, coal-black as her child. Bess united all the fire and gentleness,

the strength and hardihood, the abstinence and endurance of fatigue of

the one, with the spirit and extraordinary fleetness of the other. How

Turpin became possessed of her is of little consequence. We never heard

that he paid a heavy price for her; though we doubt if any sum would

have induced him to part with her. In color, she was perfectly black,

with a skin smooth on the surface as polished jet; not a single white

hair could be detected in her satin coat. In make she was magnificent.

Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact; modelled, in little, for

strength and speed. Arched was her neck, as that of the swan; clean and

fine were her lower limbs, as those of the gazelle; round and sound as a

drum was her carcase, and as broad as a cloth-yard shaft her width of

chest. Hers were the "_pulchræ clunes, breve caput, arduaque cervix_,"

of the Roman bard. There was no redundancy of flesh, 'tis true; her

flanks might, to please some tastes, have been rounder, and her

shoulders fuller; but look at the nerve and sinew, palpable through the

veined limbs! She was built more for strength than beauty, and yet she

_was_ beautiful. Look at that elegant little head; those thin, tapering

ears, closely placed together; that broad, snorting nostril, which seems

to snuff the gale with disdain; that eye, glowing and large as the

diamond of Giamschid! Is she not beautiful? Behold her paces! how

gracefully she moves! She is off!--no eagle on the wing could skim the

air more swiftly. Is she not superb? As to her temper, the lamb is not

more gentle. A child might guide her.

But hark back to Dick Turpin. We left him rattling along in superb

style, and in the highest possible glee. He could not, in fact, be

otherwise than exhilarated; nothing being so wildly intoxicating as a

mad gallop. We seem to start out of ourselves--to be endued, for the

time, with new energies. Our thoughts take wings rapid as our steed. We

feel as if his fleetness and boundless impulses were for the moment our

own. We laugh; we exult; we shout for very joy. We cry out with

Mephistopheles, but in anything but a sardonic mood, "What I enjoy with

spirit, is it the less my own on that account? If I can pay for six

horses, are not their powers mine! I drive along, and am a proper man,

as if I had four-and-twenty legs!" These were Turpin's sentiments

precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain, and he needed no

Mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as his nag could

carry him. Away, away!--the road is level, the path is clear. Press on,

thou gallant steed, no obstacle is in thy way!--and, lo! the moon breaks

forth! Her silvery light is thrown over the woody landscape. Dark

shadows are cast athwart the road, and the flying figures of thy rider

and thyself are traced, like giant phantoms, in the dust!

Away, away! our breath is gone in keeping up with this tremendous run.

Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind, for we hear his cheering

cry--hark! he sings. The reader will bear in mind that Oliver means the

moon--to "whiddle" is to blab.

OLIVER WHIDDLES!

Oliver whiddles--the tattler old!

Telling what best had been left untold.

Oliver ne'er was a friend of mine;

All glims I hate that so brightly shine.

Give me a night black as hell, and then

See what I'll show to you, my merry men.

Oliver whiddles!--who cares--who cares,

If down upon us he peers and stares?

Mind him who will, with his great white face,

Boldly _I'll_ ride by his glim to the chase;

Give him a Rowland, and loudly as ever

Shout, as I show myself, "Stand and deliver!"

"Egad," soliloquized Dick, as he concluded his song, looking up at the

moon. "Old Noll's no bad fellow, either. I wouldn't be without his white

face to-night for a trifle. He's as good as a lamp to guide one, and let

Bess only hold on as she goes now, and I'll do it with ease. Softly,

wench, softly--dost not see it's a hill we're rising. The devil's in the

mare, she cares for nothing." And as they ascended the hill, Dick's

voice once more awoke the echoes of night.

WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN

Hodiè mihi, cràs tibi.--SAINT AUGUSTIN.

One night, when mounted on my mare,

To Bagshot Heath I did repair,

And saw Will Davies hanging there,

Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,

_With a rustified, fustified, mustified air!_

Within his chains bold Will looked blue,

Gone were his sword and snappers too,

Which served their master well and true;

Says I, "Will Davies, how are you?

_With your rustified, fustified, mustified air!_"

Says he, "Dick Turpin, here I be,

Upon the gibbet, as you see;

I take the matter easily;

_You'll_ have your turn as well as me,

_With your whistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my-throat air!_"

Says I, "That's very true, my lad;

Meantime, with pistol and with prad,

I'm quite contented as I am,

And heed the gibbet not a d--n!

_With its rustified, fustified, mustified air!_"

"Poor Will Davies!" sighed Dick; "Bagshot ought never to forget

him."[110]

For never more shall Bagshot see

A highwayman of such degree,

Appearance, and gentility,

As Will, who hangs upon the tree,

_With his rustified, fustified, mustified air!_

"Well," mused Turpin, "I suppose one day it will be with me like all the

rest of 'em, and that I shall dance a long lavolta to the music of the

four whistling winds, as my betters have done before me; but I trust,

whenever the chanter-culls and last-speech scribblers get hold of me,

they'll at least put no cursed nonsense into my mouth, but make me

speak, as I have ever felt, like a man who never either feared death, or

turned his back upon his friend. In the mean time I'll give them

something to talk about. This ride of mine shall ring in their ears long

after I'm done for--put to bed with a mattock, and tucked up with a

spade.

And when I am gone, boys, each huntsman shall say,

None rode like Dick Turpin, so far in a day.

And thou, too, brave Bess!--thy name shall be linked with mine, and

we'll go down to posterity together; and what," added he, despondingly,

"if it should be too much for thee? what if----but no matter! Better die

now, while I am with thee, than fall into the knacker's hands. Better

die with all thy honors upon thy head, than drag out thy old age at the

sand-cart. Hark forward, lass--hark forward!"

By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the horse, will

at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's physical

temperament, and allow himself so to be influenced by it, that,

according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his own energies rise

and fall, wavering

From walk to trot, from canter to full speed?

How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with the

metaphysics of the Houyhnhnm than we pretend to be? Do the saddle or

the rein convey, like metallic tractors, vibrations of the spirit

betwixt the two? We know not, but this much is certain, that no servant

partakes so much of the character of his master as the horse. The steed

we are wont to ride becomes a portion of ourselves. He thinks and feels

with us. As we are lively, he is sprightly; as we are depressed, his

courage droops. In proof of this, let the reader see what horses some

men make--_make_, we say, because in such hands their character is

wholly altered. Partaking, in a measure, of the courage and the firmness

of the hand that guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that

sways them--what their rider wills, they do, or strive to do. When that

governing power is relaxed, their energies are relaxed likewise; and

their fine sensibilities supply them with an instant knowledge of the

disposition and capacity of the rider. A gift of the gods is the gallant

steed, which, like any other faculty we possess, to use or to abuse--to

command or to neglect--rests with ourselves; he is the best general test

of our own self-government.

Black Bess's action amply verified what we have just asserted; for

during Turpin's momentary despondency, her pace was perceptibly

diminished and her force retarded; but as he revived, she rallied

instantly, and, seized apparently with a kindred enthusiasm, snorted

joyously as she recovered her speed. Now was it that the child of the

desert showed herself the undoubted offspring of the hardy loins from

whence she sprung. Full fifty miles had she sped, yet she showed no

symptoms of distress. If possible, she appeared fresher than when she

started. She had breathed; her limbs were suppler; her action was freer,

easier, lighter. Her sire, who, upon his trackless wilds, could have

outstripped the pestilent simoom; and with throat unslaked, and hunger

unappeased, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down, had not

greater powers of endurance. His vigor was her heritage. Her dam, who

upon the velvet sod was of almost unapproachable swiftness, and who had

often brought her owner golden assurances of her worth, could scarce

have kept pace with her, and would have sunk under a third of her

fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. We ne'er shall look upon her like

again, unless we can prevail upon some Bedouin chief to present us with

a brood mare, and then the racing world shall see what a breed we will

introduce into this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall

be nothing to our colts, and even the railroad slow travelling, compared

with the speed of our new nags!

But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for there is no

halting now; we are going at the rate of twenty knots an hour--sailing

before the wind; and the reader must either keep pace with us, or drop

astern. Bess is now in her speed, and Dick happy. Happy! he is

enraptured--maddened--furious--intoxicated as with wine. Pshaw! wine

could never throw him into such a burning delirium. Its choicest juices

have no inspiration like this. Its fumes are slow and heady. This is

ethereal, transporting. His blood spins through his veins; winds round

his heart; mounts to his brain. Away! away! He is wild with joy. Hall,

cot, tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen, passed,

left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarcely

perceptible--it is impetus! volition! The horse and her rider are driven

forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A hamlet is visible in

the moonlight. It is scarcely discovered ere the flints sparkle beneath

the mare's hoofs. A moment's clatter upon the stones, and it is left

behind. Again it is the silent, smiling country. Now they are buried in

the darkness of woods; now sweeping along on the wide plain; now

clearing the unopened toll-bar; now trampling over the hollow-sounding

bridge, their shadows momently reflected in the placid mirror of the

stream; now scaling the hill-side a thought more slowly; now plunging,

as the horses of Ph[oe]bus into the ocean, down its precipitous sides.

The limits of two shires are already past. They are within the confines

of a third. They have entered the merry county of Huntingdon; they have

surmounted the gentle hill that slips into Godmanchester. They are by

the banks of the rapid Ouse. The bridge is past; and as Turpin rode

through the deserted streets of Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour

given from the iron tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four hours--it was

about seven when he started--Dick had accomplished full sixty miles!

A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past, and one

or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of Coventry would have

had small chance of beholding the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had

she ridden at the rate of Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor,

almost as soon as he appeared.

Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by dew-gemmed

hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows, or pasture land, with

drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on either side. But what to

Turpin, at that moment, is nature, animate or inanimate? He thinks only

of his mare--his future fame. None are by to see him ride; no

stimulating plaudits ring in his ears; no thousand hands are clapping;

no thousand voices huzzaing; no handkerchiefs are waved; no necks

strained; no bright eyes rain influence upon him; no eagle orbs watch

his motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no

sweepstakes--no plate. But his will be renown--everlasting renown; his

will be fame which will not die with him--which will keep his

reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of men. He wants

all these adventitious excitements, but he has that within which is a

greater excitement than all these. He is conscious that he is doing a

deed to live by. If not riding for _life_, he is riding for

_immortality_; and as the hero may perchance feel--for even a highwayman

may feel like a hero,--when he willingly throws away his existence in

the hope of earning a glorious name, Turpin cared not what might befall

himself, so he could proudly signalize himself as the first of his land,

_And witch the world with noble horsemanship!_

What need had he of spectators? The eye of posterity was upon him; he

felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made many a poor wight

spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a chance of reaching the goal

as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet unborn, he knew would hear and laud his

deeds. He trembled with excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the

emotion was transient. On, on they fly! The torrent leaping from the

crag--the bolt from the bow--the air-cleaving eagle--thoughts themselves

are scarce more winged in their flight!

_CHAPTER VII_

_THE YORK STAGE_

YORK, FOUR DAYS!--_Stage Coach begins on Friday, the 18th of April,

1706._ All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from

York to London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to

the Black Swan, in Holborn, in London, or to the Black Swan, in

Coney Street, in York. At both which places they may be received in

a _Stage Coach_, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs

the journey in four days--if God permits!--and sets forth at five in

the morning. And returns from York to Stamford in two days, and from

Stamford, by Huntingdon, in two days more. And the like stages in

their return. Allowing each passenger fourteen pounds' weight, and

all above, three pence per pound. Performed by Benjamin Kingman,

Henry Harrison, and Waller Baynes.--_Placard, preserved in the

coffee-room, of the Black Swan Inn at York._

The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a bright array of

stars, and a golden harvest moon, which seemed to diffuse even warmth

with its radiance; but now Turpin was approaching the region of fog and

fen, and he began to feel the influence of that dank atmosphere. The

intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies, or whatever they are called, began

to send forth their steaming vapors, and chilled the soft and wholesome

air, obscuring the void, and in some instances, as it were, choking up

the road itself with vapor. But fog or fen was the same to Bess; her

hoofs rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a cloud, like

Eöus at the break of dawn.

It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that Turpin burst upon

the York stage coach. It was no uncommon thing for the coach to be

stopped; and so furious was the career of our highwayman, that the man

involuntarily drew up his horses. Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a

task of no little difficulty, as charging a huge, lumbering coach, with

its full complement of passengers, was more than even Bess could

accomplish. The moon shone brightly on Turpin and his mare. He was

unmasked, and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation was

uttered by a gentleman on the box, who, it appeared, instantly

recognized him.

"Pull up--draw your horses across the road!" cried the gentleman;

"that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His capture would be worth three

hundred pounds to you," added he, addressing the coachman, "and is of

equal importance to me. Stand!" shouted he, presenting a cocked pistol.

This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable, either to

the coachman or the majority of the passengers--the name of Turpin

acting like magic upon them. One man jumped off behind, and was with

difficulty afterwards recovered, having tumbled into a deep ditch at the

roadside. An old gentleman with a cotton nightcap, who had popped out

his head to swear at the coachman, drew it suddenly back. A faint scream

in a female key issued from within, and there was a considerable hubbub

on the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds, the guard was heard to click

his long horse-pistols. "Stop the York four-day stage!" said he, forcing

his smoky voice through a world of throat-embracing shawl; "the fastest

coach in the kingdom: vos ever such atrocity heard of? I say, Joe, keep

them ere leaders steady; we shall all be in the ditch. Don't you see

where the hind wheels are? Who--whoop, I say."

The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and the confusion

within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped out like a rabbit's

head, and as quickly popped back on hearing the highwayman's voice.

Owing to the plunging of the horses, the gentleman had missed his aim.

Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom at any time

taken aback, Dick received the fire without flinching. He then lashed

the horses out of his course, and rode up, pistol in hand, to the

gentleman who had fired.

"Major Mowbray," said he, in a stern tone, "I know you. I meant not

either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet you have attempted my

life, sir, a second time. But you are now in my power, and by hell! if

you do not answer the questions I put to you, nothing earthly shall save

you."

"If you ask aught I may not answer, fire!" said the major; "I will never

ask life from such as you."

"Have you seen aught of Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Dick.

"The villain you mean is not yet secured," replied the major, "but we

have traces of him. 'Tis with a view of procuring more efficient

assistance that I ride to town."

"They have not met then, since?" said Dick, carelessly.

"Met! whom do you mean?"

"Your sister and Sir Luke," said Dick.

"My sister meet him!" cried the major, angrily--"think you he dares show

himself at Rookwood?"

"Ho! ho!" laughed Dick--"she _is_ at Rookwood, then? A thousand thanks,

major. Good night to you, gentlemen."

"Take that with you, and remember the guard," cried the fellow, who,

unable to take aim from where he sat, had crept along the coach roof,

and discharged thence one of his large horse-pistols at what he took to

be the highwayman's head, but which, luckily for Dick, was his hat,

which he had raised to salute the passengers.

"Remember you," said Dick, coolly replacing his perforated beaver on his

brow; "you may rely upon it, my fine fellow, I'll not forget you the

next time we meet."

And off he went like the breath of the whirlwind.

_CHAPTER VIII_

_ROADSIDE INN_

_Moor._ Take my horse, and dash a bottle of wine over him. 'Twas hot

work.

SCHILLER: _The Robbers_.

We will now make inquiries after Mr. Coates and his party, of whom both

we and Dick Turpin have for some time lost sight. With unabated ardor

the vindictive man of law and his myrmidons pressed forward. A tacit

compact seemed to have been entered into between the highwayman and his

pursuers, that he was to fly while they were to follow. Like

bloodhounds, they kept steadily upon his trail; nor were they so far

behind as Dick imagined. At each post-house they passed they obtained

fresh horses, and, while these were saddling, a postboy was despatched

_en courrier_ to order relays at the next station. In this manner they

proceeded after the first stoppage without interruption. Horses were in

waiting for them, as they, "bloody with spurring, fiery hot with haste,"

and their jaded hacks arrived. Turpin had been heard or seen in all

quarters. Turnpike-men, waggoners, carters, trampers, all had seen him.

Besides, strange as it may sound, they placed some faith in his word.

York they believed would be his destination.

At length the coach which Dick had encountered hove in sight. There was

another stoppage and another hubbub. The old gentleman's nightcap was

again manifested, and suffered a sudden occultation, as upon the former

occasion. The postboy, who was in advance, had halted, and given up his

horse to Major Mowbray, who exchanged his seat on the box for one on the

saddle, deeming it more expedient, after his interview with Turpin, to

return to Rookwood, rather than to proceed to town. The postboy was

placed behind Coates, as being the lightest weight; and, thus

reinforced, the party pushed forward as rapidly as heretofore.

Eighty and odd miles had now been traversed--the boundary of another

county, Northampton, passed; yet no rest nor respite had Dick Turpin or

his unflinching mare enjoyed. But here he deemed it fitting to make a

brief halt.

Bordering the beautiful domains of Burleigh House stood a little retired

hostelry of some antiquity, which bore the great Lord Treasurer's arms.

With this house Dick was not altogether unacquainted. The lad who acted

as ostler was known to him. It was now midnight, but a bright and

beaming night. To the door of the stable then did he ride, and knocked

in a peculiar manner. Reconnoitering Dick through a broken pane of glass

in the lintel, and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad

thrust forth a head of hair as full of straw as Mad Tom's is represented

to be upon the stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy

salutation. "Glad to see you, Captain Turpin," said he; "can I do

anything for you?"

"Get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beefsteak," said Dick.

"As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy--but the steak, Lord

love you, the old ooman won't stand it at this time; but there's a cold

round, mayhap a slice of that might do--or a knuckle of ham?"

"A pest on your knuckles, Ralph," cried Dick; "have you any raw meat in

the house?"

"Raw meat!" echoed Ralph, in surprise. "Oh, yes, there's a rare rump of

beef. You can have a cut off that, if you like."

"That's the thing I want," said Dick, ungirthing his mare. "Give me the

scraper. There, I can get a whisp of straw from your head. Now run and

get the brandy. Better bring three bottles. Uncork 'em, and let me have

half a pail of water to mix with the spirit."

"A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak! My eyes!"

exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy peepers; adding, as he went

about the execution of his task, "I always thought them Rum-padders, as

they call themselves, rum fellows, but now I'm sartin sure on it."

The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more attention upon the

horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now paid to his mare. He scraped,

chafed, and dried her, sounded each muscle, traced each sinew, pulled

her ears, examined the state of her feet, and, ascertaining that her

"withers were un-wrung," finally washed her from head to foot in the

diluted spirit, not, however, before he had conveyed a thimbleful of the

liquid to his own parched throat, and replenished what Falstaff calls a

"pocket-pistol," which he had about him. While Ralph was engaged in

rubbing her down after her bath, Dick occupied himself, not in dressing

the raw steak in the manner the stable-boy had anticipated, but in

rolling it round the bit of his bridle.

"She will now go as long as there's breath in her body," said he,

putting the flesh-covered iron within her mouth.

The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a moment or two at

the bit, Bess began to snort and paw the earth, as if impatient of

delay; and, acquainted as he was with her indomitable spirit and power,

her condition was a surprise even to Dick himself. Her vigor seemed

inexhaustible, her vivacity was not a whit diminished, but, as she was

led into the open space, her step became as light and free as when she

started on her ride, and her sense of sound as quick as ever. Suddenly

she pricked her ears, and uttered a low neigh. A dull tramp was

audible.

"Ha!" exclaimed Dick, springing into his saddle; "they come."

"Who come, captain?" asked Ralph.

"The road takes a turn here, don't it?" asked Dick--"sweeps round to the

right by the plantations in the hollow?"

"Ay, ay, captain," answered Ralph; "it's plain you knows the ground."

"What lies behind yon shed?"

"A stiff fence, captain--a reg'lar rasper. Beyond that a hill-side steep

as a house, no oss as was ever shoed can go down it."

"Indeed!" laughed Dick.

A loud halloo from Major Mowbray, who seemed advancing upon the wings of

the wind, told Dick that he was discovered. The major was a superb

horseman, and took the lead of his party. Striking his spurs deeply into

his horse, and giving him bridle enough, the major seemed to shoot

forward like a shell through the air. The Burleigh Arms retired some

hundred yards from the road, the space in front being occupied by a neat

garden, with low, clipped edges. No tall timber intervened between Dick

and his pursuers, so that the motions of both parties were visible to

each other. Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he should come

into collision with the major exactly at the angle of the road, and he

was by no means desirous of hazarding such a rencontre. He looked

wistfully back at the double fence.

"Come into the stable. Quick, captain, quick!" exclaimed Ralph.

"The stable!" echoed Dick, hesitating.

"Ay, the stable; it's your only chance. Don't you see he's turning the

corner, and they are all coming? Quick, sir, quick!"

Dick, lowering his head, rode into the tenement, the door of which was

unceremoniously slapped in the major's face, and bolted on the other

side.

"Villain!" cried Major Mowbray, thundering at the door, "come forth! You

are now fairly trapped at last--caught like the woodcock in your own

springe. We have you. Open the door, I say, and save us the trouble of

forcing it. You cannot escape us. We will burn the building down but we

will have you."

"What dun you want, measter?" cried Ralph, from the lintel, whence he

reconnoitered the major, and kept the door fast. "You're clean mista'en.

There be none here."

"We'll soon see that," said Paterson, who had now arrived; and, leaping

from his horse, the chief constable took a short run to give himself

impetus, and with his foot burst open the door. This being accomplished,

in dashed the major and Paterson, but the stable was vacant. A door was

open at the back; they rushed to it. The sharply sloping sides of a hill

slipped abruptly downwards, within a yard of the door. It was a perilous

descent to the horseman, yet the print of a horse's heels were visible

in the dislodged turf and scattered soil.

"Confusion!" cried the major, "he has escaped us."

"He is yonder," said Paterson, pointing out Turpin moving swiftly

through the steaming meadow. "See, he makes again for the road--he

clears the fence. A regular throw he has given us, by the Lord!"

"Nobly done, by Heaven!" cried the major. "With all his faults, I honor

the fellow's courage and admire his prowess. He's already ridden

to-night as I believe never man rode before. I would not have ventured

to slide down that wall, for it's nothing else, with the enemy at my

heels. What say you, gentlemen, have you had enough? Shall we let him

go, or----?"

"As far as chase goes, I don't care if we bring the matter to a

conclusion," said Titus. "I don't think, as it is, that I shall have a

sate to sit on this week to come. I've lost leather most confoundedly."

"What says Mr. Coates?" asked Paterson. "I look to him."

"Then mount, and off," cried Coates. "Public duty requires that we

should take him."

"And private pique," returned the major. "No matter! The end is the

same. Justice shall be satisfied. To your steeds, my merry men all.

Hark, and away."

Once more upon the move, Titus forgot his distress, and addressed

himself to the attorney, by whose side he rode.

"What place is that we're coming to?" asked he, pointing to a cluster of

moonlit spires belonging to a town they were rapidly approaching.

"Stamford," replied Coates.

"Stamford!" exclaimed Titus; "by the powers! then we've ridden a matter

of ninety miles. Why, the great deeds of Redmond O'Hanlon were nothing

to this! I'll remember it to my dying day, and with reason," added he,

uneasily shifting his position on the saddle.

_CHAPTER IX_

_EXCITEMENT_

How fled what moonshine faintly showed!

How fled what darkness hid!

How fled the earth beneath their feet,

The heaven above their head.

_William and Helen._

Dick Turpin, meanwhile, held bravely on his course. Bess was neither

strained by her gliding passage down the slippery hill-side nor shaken

by _larking_ the fence in the meadow. As Dick said, "It took a devilish

deal to take it out of her." On regaining the high road she resumed her

old pace, and once more they were distancing Time's swift chariot in

its whirling passage o'er the earth. Stamford, and the tongue of

Lincoln's fenny shire, upon which it is situated, were passed almost in

a breath. Rutland is won and passed, and Lincolnshire once more entered.

The road now verged within a bowshot of that sporting Athens--Corinth,

perhaps, we should say--Melton Mowbray. Melton was then unknown to fame,

but, as if inspired by that _furor venaticus_ which now inspires all who

come within twenty miles of this Charybdis of the chase, Bess here _let

out_ in a style with which it would have puzzled the best Leicestershire

squire's best prad to have kept pace. The spirit she imbibed through the

pores of her skin, and the juices of the meat she had champed, seemed to

have communicated preternatural excitement to her. Her pace was

absolutely terrific. Her eyeballs were dilated, and glowed like flaming

carbuncles; while her widely-distended nostril seemed, in the cold

moonshine, to snort forth smoke, as from a hidden fire. Fain would

Turpin have controlled her; but, without bringing into play all his

tremendous nerve, no check could be given her headlong course, and for

once, and the only time in her submissive career, Bess resolved to have

her own way--and she had it. Like a sensible fellow, Dick conceded the

point. There was something even of conjugal philosophy in his

self-communion upon the occasion. "E'en let her take her own way and be

hanged to her, for an obstinate, self-willed jade as she is," said he:

"now her back is up there'll be no stopping her, I'm sure: she rattles

away like a woman's tongue, and when that once begins, we all know what

chance the curb has. Best to let her have it out, or rather to lend her

a lift. 'Twill be over the sooner. Tantivy, lass! tantivy! I know which

of us will tire first."

We have before said that the vehement excitement of continued swift

riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium amounting to delirium.

Dick's blood was again on fire. He was first giddy, as after a deep

draught of kindling spirit; this passed off, but the spirit was still

in his veins--the _estro_ was working in his brain. All his ardor, his

eagerness, his fury, returned. He rode like one insane, and his courser

partook of his frenzy. She bounded; she leaped; she tore up the ground

beneath her; while Dick gave vent to his exultation in one wild,

prolonged halloo. More than half his race is run. He has triumphed over

every difficulty. He will have no further occasion to halt. Bess carries

her forage along with her. The course is straightforward--success seems

certain--the goal already reached--the path of glory won. Another wild

halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, and away!

Away! away! thou matchless steed! yet brace fast thy sinews--hold, hold

thy breath, for, alas! the goal is not yet attained!

But forward! forward, on they go,

High snorts the straining steed,

Thick pants the rider's laboring breath,

As headlong on they speed!

_CHAPTER X_

_THE GIBBET_

See there, see there, what yonder swings

And creaks 'mid whistling rain,

Gibbet and steel--the accursed wheel--

A murderer in his chain.

_William and Helen._

As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling, bleak

December, the horse and her rider passed over what remained of

Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are now more slowly looking up

the ascent of Gonerby Hill, a path well known to Turpin; where often, in

bygone nights, many a purse had changed its owner. With that feeling of

independence and exhilaration which every one feels, we believe, on

having climbed the hill-side, Turpin turned to gaze around. There was

triumph in his eye. But the triumph was checked as his glance fell upon

a gibbet near him to the right, on the round point of hill which is a

landmark to the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed as he was for time, Dick

immediately struck out of the road, and approached the spot where it

stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with rags and rusty links of

chains, depended from the tree. A night crow screaming around the

carcases added to the hideous effect of the scene. Nothing but the

living highwayman and his skeleton brethren was visible upon the

solitary spot. Around him was the lonesome waste of hill, o'erlooking

the moonlit valley: beneath his feet, a patch of bare and

lightning-blasted sod: above, the wan, declining moon and skies, flaked

with ghostly clouds; before him, the bleached bodies of the murderers,

for such they were.

"Will this be my lot, I marvel?" said Dick, looking upwards, with an

involuntary shudder.

"Ay, marry will it," rejoined a crouching figure, suddenly springing

from beside a tuft of briars that skirted the blasted ground.

Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged at the sight

of this unexpected apparition.

"What, ho! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou?" exclaimed Dick,

reassured upon discovering it was the gipsy queen, and no spectre whom

he beheld. "Stand still, Bess--stand, lass. What dost thou here, mother

of darkness? Art gathering mandrakes for thy poisonous messes, or

pilfering flesh from the dead? Meddle not with their bones, or I will

drive thee hence. What dost thou here, I say, old dam of the gibbet?"

"I came to die here," replied Barbara, in a feeble tone; and, throwing

back her hood, she displayed features well-nigh as ghastly as those of

the skeletons above her.

"Indeed," replied Dick. "You've made choice of a pleasant spot, it must

be owned. But you'll not die yet?"

"Do you know whose bodies these are?" asked Barbara, pointing upwards.

"Two of your race," replied Dick; "right brethren of the blade."

"Two of my sons," returned Barbara; "my twin children. I am come to lay

my bones beneath their bones--my sepulchre shall be their sepulchre; my

body shall feed the fowls of the air as theirs have fed them. And if

ghosts can walk, we'll scour this heath together. I tell you what, Dick

Turpin," said the hag, drawing as near to the highwayman as Bess would

permit her; "dead men walk and ride--ay, _ride_!--there's a comfort for

you. I've seen these do it. I have seen them fling off their chains, and

dance--ay, dance with me--with their mother. No revels like dead men's

revels, Dick. I shall soon join 'em."

"You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother?" said Dick, with

difficulty mastering his terror.

"No," replied Barbara, in an altered tone. "But I will let nature do her

task. Would she could do it more quickly. Such a life as mine won't go

out without a long struggle. What have I to live for now? All are

gone--she and her child! But what is this to you? You have no child; and

if you had, you could not feel like a father. No matter--I rave. Listen

to me. I have crawled hither to die. 'Tis five days since I beheld you,

and during that time food has not passed these lips, nor aught of

moisture, save Heaven's dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall they

to the last. That time cannot be far off; and now can you not guess

_how_ I mean to die? Begone and leave me; your presence troubles me. I

would breathe my last breath alone, with none to witness the parting

pang."

"I will not trouble you longer, mother," said Dick, turning his mare;

"nor will I ask your blessing."

"My blessing!" scornfully ejaculated Barbara. "You shall have it if you

will, but you will find it a curse. Stay! a thought strikes me. Whither

are you going?"

"To seek Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Dick. "Know you aught of him?"

"Sir Luke Rookwood! You seek him, and would find him?" screamed Barbara.

"I would," said Dick.

"And you _will_ find him," said Barbara; "and that ere long. I shall

ne'er again behold him. Would I could. I have a message for him--one of

life and death. Will you convey it to him?"

"I will," said the highwayman.

"Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing with her skinny

fingers to the gibbet; "that you will do my bidding."

"I swear," cried Dick.

"Fail not, or _we_ will haunt thee to thy life's end," cried Barbara;

adding, as she handed a sealed package to the highwayman, "Give this to

Sir Luke--to him alone. I would have sent it to him by other hands ere

this, but my people have deserted me--have pillaged my stores--have

rifled me of all save this. Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your own

hands. You have sworn it, and will obey. Give it to him, and bid him

think of Sybil as he opens it. But this must not be till Eleanor is in

his power; and she must be present when the seal is broken. It relates

to both. Dare not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue you. That

packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were fatal. Obey me,

and my dying breath shall bless thee."

"Never fear," said Dick, taking the packet; "I'll not disappoint you,

mother, depend upon it."

"Hence!" cried the crone; and as she watched Dick's figure lessening

upon the Waste, and at length beheld him finally disappear down the

hill-side, she sank to the ground, her frail strength being entirely

exhausted. "Body and soul may now part in peace," gasped she. "All I

live for is accomplished." And ere one hour had elapsed, the night crow

was perched upon her still breathing frame.

Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued his way. At

length he thought fit to examine the packet with which the old gipsy had

entrusted him.

"It feels like a casket," thought he. "It can't be gold. But then it may

be jewels, though they don't rattle, and it ain't quite heavy enough.

What can it be? I should like to know. There is some mystery, that's

certain, about it; but I will not break the seal, not I. As to her

spell, that I don't value a rush; but I've sworn to give it to Sir Luke,

and deliver her message, and I'll keep my word if I can. He shall have

it." So saying, he replaced it in his pocket.

_CHAPTER XI_

_THE PHANTOM STEED_

I'll speak to thee, though hell itself should gape,

And bid me hold my peace.

_Hamlet._

Time presses. We may not linger in our course. We must fly on before our

flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall we pass over in a breath. Two

more hours have elapsed, and he still urges his headlong career, with

heart resolute as ever, and purpose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the

dashing Trent, "most loved of England's streams," are gathered to his

laurels. Broad Notts, and its heavy paths and sweeping glades; its

waste--forest no more--of Sherwood past; bold Robin Hood and his merry

men, his Marian and his moonlight rides, recalled, forgotten, left

behind. Hurrah! hurrah! That wild halloo, that waving arm, that

enlivening shout--what means it? He is once more upon Yorkshire ground;

his horse's hoof beats once more the soil of that noble shire. So

transported was Dick, that he could almost have flung himself from the

saddle to kiss the dust beneath his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run,

nor has the morn yet dawned upon his labors. Hurrah! the end draws nigh;

the goal is in view. Halloo! halloo! on!

Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby. He is

skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don.

Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of distress. There was a

strain in the carriage of her throat, a dulness in her eye, a laxity in

her ear, and a slight stagger in her gait, which Turpin noticed with

apprehension. Still she went on, though not at the same gallant pace as

heretofore. But, as the tired bird still battles with the blast upon the

ocean, as the swimmer still stems the stream, though spent, on went she:

nor did Turpin dare to check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she

might lose her force, or, if she fell, she would rise no more.

It was now that gray and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange or rose

has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself seems to snatch

brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is the only time when

their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake--alive; the streets ring with

laughter and with rattling wheels. At the third hour, a dead, deep

silence prevails; the loud-voiced streets grow dumb. They are deserted

of all, save the few guardians of the night and the skulking robber. But

even far removed from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same.

"Nature's best nurse" seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns

throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by the

hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has neither the

nipping, wholesome shrewdness of morn, nor the profound chillness of

night, the frame vainly struggles against the dull, miserable sensations

engendered by the damps, and at once communicates them to the spirits.

Hope forsakes us. We are weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited.

Sleep does "not weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. We

conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon

projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium, appear

fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment, energy.

We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he had to

struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at defiance.

The moon had set. The stars,

Pinnacled deep in the intense main,

had all--save one, the herald of the dawn--withdrawn their luster. A

dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold. Turpin's

chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein, while his

eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled him to

distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed. It was

owing, probably, to this latter circumstance, that Bess suddenly

floundered and fell, throwing her master over her head.

Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was for his horse.

But Bess was instantly upon her legs--covered with dust and foam, sides

and cheeks--and with her large eyes glaring wildly, almost piteously,

upon her master.

"Art hurt, lass?" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly

shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scrutiny. "Nothing but a

shake; though that dull eye--those quivering flanks----" added he,

looking earnestly at her. "She won't go much further, and I must give it

up--what! give up the race just when it's won? No, that can't be. Ha!

well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid, given me by an old fellow, who

was a knowing cove and famous jockey in his day, which he swore would

make a horse go as long as he'd a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it

for some great occasion. I've never used it; but I'll try it now. It

should be in this pocket. Ah! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after

all, as Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like thee. No

matter! It will be a glorious end."

Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents of the

bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait long before its

invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire was kindled in the

glassy orb; her crest was once more erected; her flank ceased to quiver;

and she neighed loud and joyously.

"Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. "The drink has worked

wonders. What the devil could it have been? It smells like spirit,"

added he, examining the bottle. "I wish I'd left a taste for myself. But

here's that will do as well." And he drained his flask of the last drop

of brandy.

Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was with

difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary preliminary

being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no difficulty in

resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We know not whether

there was any likeness between our Turpin and that modern Hercules of

the sporting world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far be it from us to institute any

comparison, though we cannot help thinking that, in one particular, he

resembled that famous "copper-bottomed" squire. This we will leave to

our reader's discrimination. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He

suffered somewhat of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore,

occurs "to weavers and M. P.'s, from sitting too long;" but again on his

courser's back, he cared not for anything.

Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don,

skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried far more

swiftly than its current to its confluence with the Aire.

Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn first began to

break. Here and there a twitter was heard in the hedge; a hare ran

across his path, gray-looking as the morning self; and the mists began

to rise from the earth. A bar of gold was drawn against the east, like

the roof of a gorgeous palace. But the mists were heavy in this world of

rivers and their tributary streams. The Ouse was before him, the Trent

and Aire behind; the Don and Derwent on either hand, all in their way to

commingle their currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region

so prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here and

there the ground was clear; but then again came a volley of vapor, dim

and palpable as smoke.

While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware of another

horseman by his side. It was impossible to discern the features of the

rider, but his figure in the mist seemed gigantic; neither was the color

of his steed distinguishable. Nothing was visible except the

meagre-looking, phantom-like outline of a horse and his rider, and, as

the unknown rode upon the turf that edged the way, even the sound of the

horse's hoofs was scarcely audible. Turpin gazed, not without

superstitious awe. Once or twice he essayed to address the strange

horseman, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He fancied he

discovered in the mist-exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and

fantastic resemblance to his friend Tom King. "It must be Tom," thought

Turpin; "he is come to warn me of my approaching end. I will speak to

him."

But terror o'ermastered his speech. He could not force out a word, and

thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking with fears he would

scarcely acknowledge to himself, Dick watched every motion of his

companion. He was still, stern, spectre-like, erect; and looked for all

the world like a demon on his phantom steed. His courser seemed, in the

indistinct outline, to be huge and bony, and, as he snorted furiously

in the fog, Dick's heated imagination supplied his breath with a due

proportion of flame. Not a word was spoken--not a sound heard, save the

sullen dead beat of his hoofs upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride

thus cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. He put

spurs to his horse, and endeavored to escape. But it might not be. The

stranger, apparently without effort, was still by his side, and Bess's

feet, in her master's apprehensions, were nailed to the ground.

By-and-by, however, the atmosphere became clearer. Bright quivering

beams burst through the vaporous shroud, and then it was that Dick

discovered that the apparition of Tom King was no other than Luke

Rookwood. He was mounted on his old horse, Rook, and looked grim and

haggard as a ghost vanishing at the crowing of the cock.

"Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!" exclaimed Dick, in astonishment.

"Why, I took you for----"

"The devil, no doubt?" returned Luke, smiling sternly, "and were sorry

to find yourself so hard pressed. Don't disquiet yourself; I am still

flesh and blood."

"Had I taken you for one of mortal mould," said Dick, "you should have

soon seen where I'd have put you in the race. That confounded fog

deceived me, and Bess acted the fool as well as myself. However, now I

know you, Sir Luke, you must spur alongside, for the hawks are on the

wing; and though I've much to say, I've not a second to lose." And Dick

briefly detailed the particulars of his ride, concluding with his

rencontre with Barbara. "Here's the packet," said he, "just as I got it.

You must keep it till the proper moment. And here," added he, fumbling

in his pocket for another paper, "is the marriage document. You are now

your father's lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it and welcome.

If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray's hand, you will not forget Dick

Turpin."

"I will not," said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; "but she

never may be mine."

"You have her oath?"

"I have."

"What more is needed?"

"Her hand."

"That will follow."

"It _shall_ follow," replied Sir Luke, wildly. "You are right. She is my

affianced bride--affianced before hell, if not before heaven. I have

sealed the contract with blood--with Sybil's blood--and it shall be

fulfilled. I have her oath--her oath--ha, ha! Though I perish in the

attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph's grasp. She shall never be his.

I would stab her first. Twice have I failed in my endeavors to bear her

off. I am from Rookwood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the

attack. Will you assist me?"

"To-morrow night!" interrupted Dick.

"Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned," replied

Luke.

"I will: she is at Rookwood?"

"She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and her lover.

The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on the alert. But we

will storm their garrison. I have a spy within its walls--a gipsy girl,

faithful to my interests. From her I have learnt that there is a plot to

wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the marriage is to take place privately

to-morrow. This must be prevented."

"It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall, and claim

her?"

"Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my head. I am

hunted through the country--driven to concealment, and dare not show

myself for fear of capture. What could I do now? They would load me with

fetters, bury me in a dungeon, and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What would my

rights avail? What would her oath signify to them? No; she must be mine

by force. _His_ she shall never be. Again, I ask you, will you aid me?"

"I have said--I will. Where is Alan Rookwood?"

"Concealed within the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it--it was one of

your haunts."

"I know it well," said Dick, "and Conkey Jem, its keeper, into the

bargain: he is a knowing file. I'll join you at the hut at midnight, if

all goes well. We'll bring off the wench, in spite of them all--just the

thing I like. But in case of a break-down on my part, suppose you take

charge of my purse in the mean time."

Luke would have declined this offer.

"Pshaw!" said Dick. "Who knows what may happen? and it's not ill-lined

either. You'll find an odd hundred or so in that silken bag--it's not

often your highwayman gives away a purse. Take it, man--we'll settle all

to-night; and if I don't come, keep it--it will help you to your bride.

And now off with you to the hut, for you are only hindering me. Adieu!

My love to old Alan. We'll do the trick to-night. Away with you to the

hut. Keep yourself snug there till midnight, and we'll ride over to

Rookwood."

"At midnight," replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, "I shall expect you."

"'Ware hawks!" hallooed Dick.

But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was scouring the plain as

rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as Dick has casually alluded to the

hawks, it may not be amiss to inquire how they had flown throughout the

night, and whether they were still in chase of their quarry.

With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up at Grantham,

"having got," as he said, "a complete bellyful of it," they were still

on the wing, and resolved sooner or later to pounce upon their prey,

pursuing the same system as heretofore in regard to the post-horses.

Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead, but the irascible and

invincible attorney was not far in their rear, his wrath having been by

no means allayed by the fatigue he had undergone. At Bawtrey they held

a council of war for a few minutes, being doubtful which course he had

taken. Their incertitude was relieved by a foot traveller, who had heard

Dick's loud halloo on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had

seen him take the lower road. They struck, therefore, into the path at

Thorne at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they were right. Furiously

did they now spur on. They reached Selby, changed horses at the inn in

front of the venerable cathedral church, and learnt from the postboy

that a toilworn horseman, on a jaded steed, had ridden through the town

about five minutes before them, and could not be more than a quarter of

a mile in advance. "His horse was so dead beat," said the lad, "that I'm

sure he cannot have got far; and, if you look sharp, I'll be bound

you'll overtake him before he reaches Cawood Ferry."

Mr. Coates was transported. "We'll lodge him snug in York Castle before

an hour, Paterson," cried he, rubbing his hands.

"I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, "but I begin to have some

qualms."

"Now, gentlemen," shouted the postboy, "come along. I'll soon bring you

to him."

_CHAPTER XII_

_CAWOOD FERRY_

The sight renewed my courser's feet,

A moment, staggering feebly fleet,

A moment, with a faint low neigh,

He answered, and then fell.

With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,

And reeking limbs immovable,--

His first, and last career was done.

_Mazeppa._

The sun had just o'ertopped the "high eastern hill," as Turpin reached

the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were reflected upon the deep and

sluggish waters of the Ouse. Wearily had he dragged his course

thither--wearily and slow. The powers of his gallant steed were spent,

and he could scarcely keep her from sinking. It was now midway 'twixt

the hours of five and six. Nine miles only lay before him, and that

thought again revived him. He reached the water's edge, and hailed the

ferryboat, which was then on the other side of the river. At that

instant a loud shout smote his ear; it was the halloo of his pursuers.

Despair was in his look. He shouted to the boatman, and bade him pull

fast. The man obeyed; but he had to breast a strong stream, and had a

lazy bark and heavy sculls to contend with. He had scarcely left the

shore when, another shout was raised from the pursuers. The tramp of

their steeds grew louder and louder.

The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. His captors were

at hand. Quietly did he walk down the bank, and as cautiously enter the

water. There was a plunge, and steed and rider were swimming down the

river.

Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesitated an instant,

and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were, by a mania for equestrian

distinction, Mr. Coates braved the torrent. Not so Paterson. He very

coolly took out his bulldogs, and, watching Turpin, cast up in his own

mind the _pros_ and _cons_ of shooting him as he was crossing. "I could

certainly hit him," thought, or said, the constable; "but what of that?

A dead highwayman is worth nothing--alive, he _weighs_ 300_l_. I won't

shoot him, but I'll make a pretence." And he fired accordingly.

The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was intended, do

much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mishap, which had nearly proved

fatal to our aquatic attorney. Alarmed at the report of the pistol, in

the nervous agitation of the moment Coates drew in his rein so tightly

that his steed instantly sank. A moment or two afterwards he rose,

shaking his ears, and floundering heavily towards the shore; and such

was the chilling effect of this sudden immersion, that Mr. Coates now

thought much more of saving himself than of capturing Turpin. Dick,

meanwhile, had reached the opposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath,

Bess scrambled up the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the

road. "I shall do it yet," shouted Dick; "that stream has saved her.

Hark away, lass! Hark away!"

Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. She roused

all her energies; strained every sinew, and put forth all her remaining

strength. Once more, on wings of swiftness, she bore him away from his

pursuers, and Major Mowbray, who had now gained the shore, and made

certain of securing him, beheld him spring, like a wounded hare, from

beneath his very hand.

"It cannot hold out," said the major; "it is but an expiring flash; that

gallant steed must soon drop."

"She be regularly booked, that's certain," said the postboy.

"We shall find her on the road."

Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set pursuit at

defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started. But it was

unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted the ease, the lightness,

the life of her former riding. She seemed screwed up to a task which she

must execute. There was no flogging, no gory heel; but the heart was

throbbing, tugging at the sides within. Her spirit spurred her onwards.

Her eye was glazing; her chest heaving; her flank quivering; her crest

again fallen. Yet she held on. "She is dying!" said Dick. "I feel

it----" No, she held on.

Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst upon him in all

the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a bright, clear, autumnal

morn. The ancient city seemed to smile a welcome--a greeting. The noble

Minster and its serene and massive pinnacles, crocketed, lantern-like,

and beautiful; St. Mary's lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the massive

mouldering walls of the adjacent postern, the grim castle, and

Clifford's neighboring keep--all beamed upon him, like a bright-eyed

face, that laughs out openly.

"It is done--it is won," cried Dick. "Hurrah! hurrah!" And the sunny air

was cleft with his shouts.

Bess was not insensible to her master's exultation. She neighed feebly

in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous sight to

see her,--to mark her staring, protruding eyeball,--her shaking flanks;

but, while life and limb held together, she held on.

Another mile is past. York is near.

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess tottered--fell.

There was a dreadful gasp--a parting moan--a snort; her eye gazed, for

an instant, upon her master, with a dying glare; then grew glassy,

rayless, fixed. A shiver ran through her frame. Her heart had burst.

Dick's eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though achieved,

was forgotten--his own safety was disregarded. He stood weeping and

swearing, like one beside himself.

"And art thou gone, Bess?" cried he, in a voice of agony, lifting up his

courser's head, and kissing her lips, covered with blood-flecked foam.

"Gone, gone! and I have killed the best steed that was ever crossed! And

for what?" added Dick, beating his brow with his clenched hand--"for

what? for what?"

At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out the hour of

six.

"I am answered," gasped Dick; "_it was to hear those strokes_."

Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he had

fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself by the blow,

he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought his pistols: but

he was spared the necessity of using them, by discovering in the

intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar. The patrico was

habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his

shoulders.

"So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," said Balthazar;

"I can guess how it has happened--you are pursued?"

"I am," said Dick, roughly.

"Your pursuers are at hand?"

"Within a few hundred yards."

"Then, why stay here? Fly while you can."

"Never--never," cried Turpin; "I'll fight it out here by Bess's side.

Poor lass! I've killed her--but she has done it--ha, ha!--we have

won--what?" And his utterance was again choked.

"Hark! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts," cried the patrico. "Take

this wallet. You will find a change of dress within it. Dart into that

thick copse--save yourself."

"But Bess--I cannot leave her," exclaimed Dick, with an agonizing look

at his horse.

"And what did Bess die for, but to save you?" rejoined the patrico.

"True, true," said Dick; "but take care of her, don't let those dogs of

hell meddle with her carcase."

"Away," cried the patrico, "leave Bess to me."

Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the adjoining

copse.

He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray rode up.

"Who is this?" exclaimed the Major, flinging himself from his horse, and

seizing the patrico; "this is not Turpin."

"Certainly not," replied Balthazar, coolly. "I am not exactly the figure

for a highwayman."

"Where is he? What has become of him?" asked Coates, in despair, as he

and Paterson joined the major.

"Escaped, I fear," replied the major. "Have you seen any one, fellow?"

added he, addressing the patrico.

"I have seen no one," replied Balthazar. "I am only this instant

arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my attention."

"Ha!" exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, "this may be Turpin

after all. He has as many disguises as the devil himself, and may have

carried that goat's hair in his pocket." Saying which, he seized the

patrico by the beard, and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul

handled the hirsute chin of the Roman senator.

"The devil! hands off," roared Balthazar. "By Salamon, I won't stand

such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the growth of a few

minutes? Hands off! I say."

"Regularly done!" said Paterson, removing his hold of the patrico's

chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.

"Ay," exclaimed Coates; "all owing to this worthless piece of carrion.

If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those

walls"--pointing towards the Castle--"I should wish her master were by

her side now. To the dogs with her." And he was about to spurn the

breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the

patrico's staff, felled him to the ground.

"I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to attack Paterson.

"Come, come," said the discomfited chief constable, "no more of this.

It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every bone in my body aches

sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr.

Coates, take my arm, and let's be moving. We've had an infernal long

ride for nothing."

"Not so," replied Coates; "I've paid pretty dearly for it. However, let

us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling-green, yonder; though

I've already had my morning draught," added the facetious man of law,

looking at his dripping apparel.

"Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding the body of

the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. "Thou deservedst a better

fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin has lost his best

friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the coloring of romance,

which thy unfailing energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over

thee, thou matchless mare!"

To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico in

undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray

ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with all possible

expedition.

A countryman, in a smock-frock, was busily engaged at his morning's

meal.

"To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had

fasted for a month," said Coates; "see the wholesome effects of an

honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite--I should

fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place."

The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible

squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.

"An ugly dog!" exclaimed Paterson: "what a devil of a twist he has

got!"

"What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?" asked the

countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

"Have you seen aught of him?" asked Coates.

"Not I," mumbled the rustic; "but I hears aw the folks hereabouts talk

on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and constables at

defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to cotch him--ha,

ha! He gets over more ground in a day than they do in a week--ho, ho!"

"That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. "He has cut his own

throat--ridden his famous mare to death."

The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt a huge

mouthful. "Ay--indeed, measter! How happened that?" asked he, so soon as

he recovered speech.

"The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned Coates;

"such a feat was never performed before. What horse could be expected to

live through such work as that?"

"Ah, he were a foo' to attempt that," observed the countryman; "but you

followed belike?"

"We did."

"And took him arter all, I reckon?" asked the rustic, squinting more

horribly than ever.

"No," returned Coates, "I can't say we did; but we'll have him yet. I'm

pretty sure he can't be far off. We may be nearer him than we imagine."

"May be so, measter," returned the countryman; "but might I be so bold

as to ax how many horses you used i' the chase--some half-dozen, maybe?"

"Half a dozen!" growled Paterson; "we had twenty at the least."

"And I ONE!" mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the countryman.

_BOOK V_

_THE OATH_

It was an ill oath better broke than kept--

The laws of nature, and of nations, do

Dispense with matters of divinity

In such a case.

TATEHAM.

_CHAPTER I_

_THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE_

_Hind._ Are all our horses and our arms in safety?

_Furbo._ They feed, like Pluto's palfreys, under ground.

Our pistols, swords, and other furniture,

Are safely locked up at our rendezvous.

_Prince of Prigs' Revels._

The hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before incidentally alluded,

and whither we are now about to repair, was a low, lone hovel, situate

on the banks of the deep and oozy Don, at the eastern extremity of that

extensive moor. Ostensibly its owner fulfilled the duties of ferryman to

that part of the river; but as the road which skirted his tenement was

little frequented, his craft was, for the most part, allowed to sleep

undisturbed in her moorings.

In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of smugglers who

infested the neighboring coast; his cabin was their rendezvous; and not

unfrequently, it was said, the depository of their contraband goods.

Conkey Jem--so was he called by his associates, on account of the

Slawkenbergian promontory which decorated his countenance--had been an

old hand at the same trade; but having returned from a seven years'

leave of absence from his own country, procured by his lawless life, now

managed matters with more circumspection and prudence, and had never

since been detected in his former illicit traffic; nor, though so

marvellously gifted in that particular himself, was he ever known to

_nose_ upon any of his accomplices; or, in other words, to betray them.

On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all fugitives from

justice; and although the sanctity of his walls would, in all

probability, have been little regarded, had any one been, detected

within them, yet, strange to say, even if a robber had been tracked--as

it often chanced--to Jem's immediate neighborhood, all traces of him

were sure to be lost at the ferryman's hut; and further search was

useless.

Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be expected, from

its owner's pursuits and its own unpromising exterior. Consisting of

little more than a couple of rooms, the rude whitewashed walls

exhibited, in lieu of prints of more pretension, a gallery of

choicely-illustrated ballads, celebrating the exploits of various

highwaymen, renowned in song, amongst which our friend Dick Turpin

figured conspicuously upon his sable steed, Bess being represented by a

huge rampant black patch, and Dick, with a pistol considerably longer

than the arm that sustained it. Next to this curious collection was a

drum-net, a fishing-rod, a landing-net, an eel-spear, and other

piscatorial apparatus, with a couple of sculls and a boat-hook,

indicative of Jem's ferryman's office, suspended by various hooks; the

whole blackened and begrimed by peat-smoke, there being no legitimate

means of _exit_ permitted to the vapor generated by the turf-covered

hearthstone. The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to the front; the

back apartment, which served Jem for dormitory, had no aperture whatever

for the admission of light, except such as was afforded through the door

of communication between the rooms. A few broken rush-bottomed chairs,

with a couple of dirty tables, formed the sum total of the ferryman's

furniture.

Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggerated nasal organ,

Jem's aspect was at once savage and repulsive; his lank black hair hung

about his inflamed visage in wild elf locks, the animal predominating

throughout; his eyes were small, red, and wolfish, and glared

suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted eyebrows; while certain

of his teeth projected, like the tusks of a boar, from out his

coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Dwarfish in stature, and deformed in

person, Jem was built for strength; and what with his width of shoulder

and shortness of neck, his figure looked as square and as solid as a

cube. His throat and hirsute chest, constantly exposed to the weather,

had acquired a glowing tan, while his arms, uncovered to the shoulders,

and clothed with fur, like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of

his fingers, presented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force

of which few would have desired to encounter in action.

It was now on the stroke of midnight; and Jem, who had been lying

extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly aroused by that warning

impulse which never fails to awaken one of his calling at the exact

moment when they require to be upon the alert, now set about fanning

into flame the expiring fuel upon his hearth. Having succeeded in

igniting further portions of the turf, Jem proceeded to examine the

security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock and bolt were

shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he kindled a light at

his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. But it was not to retire for

the night that the ferryman entered his dormitory. Beside his crazy

couch stood a litter of empty bottles and a beer cask, crowding the

chamber. The latter he rolled aside, and pressing his foot upon the

plank beneath it, the board gave way, and a trap-door opening,

discovered a ladder, conducting, apparently, into the bowels of the

earth. Jem leaned over the abyss, and called in hoarse accents to some

one below.

An answer was immediately returned, and a light became soon afterwards

visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures next ascended; the first

who set foot within the ferryman's chamber was Alan Rookwood: the other,

as the reader may perhaps conjecture, was his grandson.

"Is it the hour?" asked Luke, as he sprang from out the trap-door.

"Ay," replied Jem, with a coarse laugh, "or I had not disturbed myself

to call you. But, maybe," added he, softening his manner a little,

"you'll like some refreshments before you start? A stoup of Nantz will

put you in cue for the job, ha, ha!"

"Not I," replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his companion's

familiarity.

"Give me to drink," said Alan, walking feebly towards the fire, and

extending his skinny fingers before it. "I am chilled by the damps of

that swampy cave--the natural heat within me is nigh extinguished."

"Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones," returned Jem,

handing him a tumbler of brandy; "never stint it. I'll be sworn you'll

be the better on't, for you look desperate queer, man, about the

mazard."

Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the last few days

had wrought a fearful change. His countenance was almost exanimate; and

when, with shaking hand and trembling lips, he had drained the fiery

potion to the dregs, a terrible grimace was excited upon his features,

such as is produced upon the corpse by the action of the galvanic

machine. Even Jem regarded him with a sort of apprehension. After he had

taken breath for a moment, Alan broke out into a fit of wild and

immoderate laughter.

"Why, ay," said he, "this is indeed to grow young again, and to feel

fresh fire within one's veins. Who would have thought so much of life

and energy could reside in this little vessel? I am myself once more,

and not the same soulless, pulseless lump of clay I was a moment or two

back. The damps of that den had destroyed me--and the solitude--the

_waking dreams_ I've had--the visions! horrible! I will not think of

them. I am better now--ready to execute my plans--_your_ plans I should

say, grandson Luke. Are our horses in readiness? Why do we tarry? The

hour is arrived, and I would not that my new-blown courage should

evaporate ere the great work for which I live be accomplished. That

done, I ask no further stimulant. Let us away."

"We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke; "I am as impatient as yourself. I

fear some mischance must have befallen him, or he would have been true

to his appointment. Do you not think so?" he added, addressing the

ferryman.

"Why," replied Jem, reluctantly, "since you put it home to me, and I

can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I didn't tell afore, for

fear you should be down in the mouth about it. Dick Turpin can do

nothing for you--he's grabb'd."

"Turpin apprehended!" ejaculated Luke.

"Ay," returned Jem. "I learnt from a farmer who crossed the ferry at

nightfall, that he were grabb'd this morning at York, after having

ridden his famous cherry-colored prad to death--that's what hurts me

more not all the rest; though I fear Dick will scarce cheat the nubbing

cheat this go. His time's up, I calculate."

"Will you supply his place and accompany us?" asked Luke of the

ferryman.

"No, no," replied Jem, shaking his head; "there's too much risk, and too

little profit, in the business for me--it won't pay."

"And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise?" asked Alan.

"More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem, who had not

been enlightened upon the subject of Alan's real name or condition.

"How know you that?" demanded Alan. "Name your demand."

"Well, then, I'll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had it, might

bribe me----"

"To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not," said Luke, fiercely

stamping the ground. "Let us be gone. We need not his mercenary aid. We

will do without him."

"Stay," said Alan, "you shall have the hundred, provided you will assure

us of your services."

"Cut no more blarneyfied whids, Master Sexton," replied Jem, in a gruff

tone. "If I'm to go, I must have the chink down, and that's more nor

either of you can do, I'm thinking."

"Give me your purse," whispered Alan to his grandson. "Pshaw," continued

he, "do you hesitate? This man can do much for us. Think upon Eleanor,

and be prudent. You cannot accomplish your task unaided." Taking the

amount from the purse, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, "If we

succeed, the sum shall be doubled; and now let us set out."

During Alan's speech, Jem's sharp eyes had been fastened upon the purse,

while he mechanically clutched the bank-notes which were given to him.

He could not remove his gaze, but continued staring at the treasure

before him, as if he would willingly, by force, have made it all his

own.

Alan saw the error he had committed in exposing the contents of the

purse to the avaricious ferryman, and was about to restore it to Luke,

when the bag was suddenly snatched from his grasp, and himself levelled

by a blow upon the floor. Conkey Jem found the temptation irresistible.

Knowing himself to be a match for both his companions, and imagining he

was secure from interruption, he conceived the idea of making away with

them, and possessing himself of their wealth. No sooner had he disposed

of Alan, than he assailed Luke, who met his charge half way. With the

vigor and alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted, but

he was no match for the herculean strength of the double-jointed

ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so much resembled, thus

furiously attacked him. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, he was not

disposed to yield up his life tamely. He saw at once the villain's

murderous intentions, and, well aware of his prodigious power, would not

have risked a close struggle could he have avoided it. Snatching the

eel-spear from the wall, he had hurled it at the head of his adversary,

but without effect. In the next instant he was locked in a clasp

terrible as that of a Polar bear. In spite of all his struggles, Luke

was speedily hurled to the ground: and Jem, who had thrown himself upon

him, was apparently searching about for some weapon to put a bloody

termination to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was heard at

the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the other, and a

call resounded from a whistle.

"Damnation!" ejaculated Jem, gruffly, "interrupted!" And he seemed

irresolute, slightly altering his position on Luke's body.

The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all probability, saved his

life. He extricated himself from the ferryman's grasp, regained his

feet, and, what was of more importance, the weapon he had thrown away.

"Villain!" cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his force into

his enemy's side, "you shall----"

The whistle was again heard without.

"Don't you hear that?" cried Jem: "'Tis Turpin's call."

"Turpin!" echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. "Unbar the

door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him."

"Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke," said Jem, fawningly; "I knows I

owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take back the lowre. He should

not have shown it me--it was that as did all the mischief."

"Unbar the door, and parley not," said Luke contemptuously.

Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, casting

suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The door at length

being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered with dust, Dick Turpin

staggered into the hut.

"Well, I am here," said he, with a hollow laugh. "I've kept my word--ha,

ha! I've been damnably put to it; but here I am, ha, ha!" And he sank

upon one of the stools.

"We heard you were apprehended," said Luke. "I am glad to find the

information was false," added he, glancing angrily at the ferryman.

"Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke," replied Dick; "but

what are you scowling at, old Charon?--and you, Sir Luke? Why do you

glower at each other? Make fast the door--bolt it, Cerberus--right! Now

give me a glass of brandy, and then I'll talk--a bumper--so--another.

What's that I see--a dead man? Old Peter--Alan I mean--has anything

happened to him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?"

"Nothing, I trust," said Luke, stooping to raise up his grandsire. "The

blow has stunned him."

"The blow?" repeated Turpin. "What! there _has_ been a quarrel then? I

thought as much from your amiable looks at each other. Come, come, we

must have no differences. Give the old earthworm a taste of this--I'll

engage it will bring him to fast enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if

you'd rather; but it's a better remedy down the gullet--the natural

course; and hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have

any _grub_ within it, and any more _bub_ in the cellar: I'm as hungry as

a hunter, and as thirsty as a camel."

_CHAPTER II_

_MAJOR MOWBRAY_

_Mephistopheles._ Out with your toasting iron! Thrust away!

HAYWARD'S _Translation of Faust_.

Conkey Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel afforded.

Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the revival of Alan

Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts, united with those of

Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to consciousness. He was

greatly surprised to find the highwayman had joined them, and expressed

an earnest desire to quit the hut as speedily as possible.

"That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow," said Dick. "But if you

had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through a few of my fatigues

into the bargain, you would perceive, without difficulty, the propriety

of supping before you started. Here comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of

bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting. In my

present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the sty." Whereupon he

applied himself to the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which

Jem placed upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter,

while the ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the

flitch upon the hissing embers.

Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had laid aside

his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol within his

breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion demand it, as he

could now put little reliance upon the ferryman's fidelity. He glanced

with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his meal with steady voracity,

worthy of a half-famished soldier; but the highwayman returned no answer

to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the incessant clatter of

his masticating jaws, during the progress of his, apparently,

interminable repast.

"Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke," said Dick; "all right

now--capital ale, Charon--strong as Styx--ha, ha!--one other rasher, and

I've done. Sorry to keep you--can't conceive how cleverly I put the

winkers upon 'em at York, in the dress of a countryman; all owing to old

Balty, the patrico, an old pal--ha, ha! My old pals never _nose_ upon

me--eh, Nosey--always help one out of the water--always staunch. Here's

health to you, old crony."

Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on the

table, which was speedily discussed.

"Poor Bess!" muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final glass of ale.

"Poor lass! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the trees--deep--deep.

Her remains shall never be disturbed. Alas! alas! my bonny Black Bess!

But no matter, her name is yet alive--her deeds will survive her--the

trial is over. And now," continued he, rising from his seat, "I'm with

you. Where are the tits?"

"In the stable, under ground," growled Jem.