WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS RODE ANOTHER RACE
Over Westminster Bridge and down the Borough galloped Barnabas, on
through the roaring din of traffic, past rumbling coach and creaking
wain, heedless of the shouts of wagoners and teamsters and the
indignant cries of startled pedestrians, yet watchful of eye and
ready of hand, despite his seeming recklessness.
On sped the great, black horse, his pace increasing as the traffic
lessened, on and on along the Old Kent Road, up the hill at New
Cross and down again, and so through Lewisham to the open country
beyond.
And now the way was comparatively clear save for the swift-moving
lights of some chaise or the looming bulk of crawling market-wagons:
therefore Barnabas, bethinking him always of the long miles before
him, and of the remorseless, creeping fingers of Natty Bell's great
watch, slacked his rein, whereat "The Terror," snorting for joy,
tossed his mighty crest on high and, bounding forward, fell into his
long, racing stride, spurning London further and further into the
dimness behind.
Barnabas rode stooped low in the saddle, his watchful eyes scanning
the road ahead, a glimmering track bordered by flying hedges, and
trees that, looming ghost-like in the dusk, flitted past and, like
ghosts, were gone again. Swift, swift sped the great, black horse,
the glimmering road below, the luminous heaven above, a glorious
canopy whence shone a myriad stars filling the still night with
their soft, mysterious glow: a hot, midsummer night full of a great
hush, a stillness wherein no wind stirred and upon whose deep
silence distant sounds seemed magnified and rose, clear and plain,
above the rhythmic drumming of "The Terror's" flying hoofs. Presently,
out of the dimness ahead, lights twinkled, growing ever brighter and
more numerous and Bromley was before him; came a long, paved street
where people turned to stare, and point, and shout at him as he
flashed by, and Bromley was behind him, and he was out upon the open
road again where hedge, and barn, and tree seemed to leap at him from
the dark only to vanish in the dimness behind.
On swept the great, black horse, past fragrant rick and misty pool,
past running rills that gurgled in the shadows, by wayside inns
whence came the sound of voices and laughter with snatches of song,
all quickly lost again in the rolling thunder of those tireless
galloping hoofs; past lonely cottages where dim lights burned, over
hill, over dale, by rolling meadow and sloping down, past darkling
woods whence breathed an air cool and damp and sweet, on up the long
ascent of Poll Hill and down into the valley again. Thus, in a while,
Barnabas saw more lights before him that, clustering together, seemed
to hang suspended in mid-air, and, with his frowning gaze upon these
clustering lights, he rode up that long, trying hill that leads into
the ancient township of Sevenoaks.
At the further end of the town he turned aside and, riding into the
yard of the Castle Inn, called for ale and, while he drank, stood by
to watch the hissing ostlers as they rubbed down "The Terror" and
gave him sparingly of water. So, into the saddle again and, bearing
to the right, off and away for Tonbridge.
But now, remembering the hill country before him, he checked his pace,
and thus, as he went, became once more aware of the profound
stillness of the night about him, and of a gathering darkness.
Therefore lifting his gaze to the heavens, he saw a great, black
cloud that grew and spread from east to west, putting out the stars.
Now, with the gathering cloud, came sudden fear to clutch at his
heart with icy fingers, a shivering dread lest, after all, he be too
late; and, clenching sweating palms, Barnabas groaned, and in that
moment "The Terror" leapt snorting beneath the rowelling spur.
Suddenly, as they topped River Hill, out of the murk ahead there met
him a puff of wind, a hot wind that came and so was gone again, but
far away beyond the distant horizon to his left, the sombre heaven
was split and rent asunder by a jagged lightning flash whose
quivering light, for one brief instant, showed him a glimpse of the
wide valley below, of the winding road, of field and hedgerow and
motionless tree and, beyond, the square tower of a church, very
small with distance yet, above whose battlements a tiny weather-vane
flashed and glittered vividly ere all things vanished, swallowed up
in the pitchy dark.
And now came the wind again and in the wind was rain, a few great
pattering drops, while the lightning flamed and quivered upon the
horizon, and the thunder rolled ever louder and more near.
Came a sudden, blinding flame, that seemed to crackle in the air
near by, a stunning thunder-clap shaking the very firmament, and
thereafter an aching blackness, upon whose startled silence burst
the rain--a sudden, hissing downpour.
Up--up reared "The Terror," whinnying with fear, then strove madly
to turn and flee before the fury of wind, and flame, and lashing rain.
Three times he swerved wildly, and three times he was checked, as
with hand, and voice, and goading spur, Barnabas drove him on
again--on down the steep descent, down, down into the yawning
blackness of the valley below, on into the raging fury of the storm.
So, buffeted by wind, lashed by stinging rain, blinded by vivid
lightning-flash, Barnabas rode on down the hill.
On and ever on, with teeth hard clenched, with eyes fierce and wide,
heedless alike of wind and wet and flame, since he could think only
of the man he rode to meet. And sometimes he uttered bitter curses,
and sometimes he touched and fondled the weapons in his pocket,
smiling evilly, for tonight, if he were not blasted by the lightning
or crushed beneath his terrified horse, Barnabas meant this man
should die.
And now upon the rushing wind were voices, demon voices that
shrieked and howled at him, filling the whirling blackness with
their vicious clamor.
"Kill him!" they shrieked. "Whether you are in time or no, kill him!
kill him!"
And Barnabas, heedless of the death that hissed and crackled in the
air about him, fronting each lightning-flash with cruel-smiling mouth,
nodded his head to the howling demons and answered:
"Yes, yes, whether in time or no, tonight he dies!"
And now, uplifted with a wild exhilaration, he laughed aloud,
exulting in the storm; and now, crushed by fear and dread, and black
despair, he raved out bitter curses and spurred on into the storm.
Little by little the thought of this man he meant to slay possessed
him utterly; it seemed to Barnabas that he could actually hear his
soft, mocking laughter; it filled the night, rising high above the
hiss of rain and rush of wind--the laugh of a satyr who waits,
confident, assured, with arms out-stretched to clasp a shuddering
goddess.
On beneath trees, dim-seen, that rocked and swayed bending to the
storm, splashing through puddles, floundering through mire, slack of
rein and ready of spur, Barnabas galloped hard. And ever the mocking
laughter rang in his ears, and ever the demons shrieked to him on the
howling wind:
"Kill him! kill him!"
So, at last, amidst rain, and wind, and mud, Barnabas rode into
Tonbridge Town, and staying at the nearest inn, dismounted stiffly
in the yard and shouted hoarsely for ostlers to bring him to the
stables. Being come there, it is Barnabas himself who holds the
bucket while the foam-flecked "Terror" drinks, a modicum of water
with a dash of brandy. Thereafter Barnabas stands by anxious-eyed
what time two ostlers rub down the great, black horse; or, striding
swiftly to and fro, the silver watch clutched in impatient hand, he
questions the men in rapid tones, as:
"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?"
"'Eadcorn, sir? Why surely you don't be thinking--"
"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?" repeats Barnabas, scowling
blackly; whereat the fellow answers to the point and Barnabas falls
to his feverish striding to and fro until, glancing from the watch
in his hand to "The Terror's" lofty crest, observing that his heaving
flanks labor no more and that he paws an impatient hoof, Barnabas
thrusts watch in fob, tightens girth and surcingle and, having paid
his score, swings himself stiffly into the saddle and is off and away,
while the gaping ostlers stare after him through the falling rain
till he has galloped out of sight.
Away, away, down empty street, over rumbling bridge and so, bearing
to the left, on and up the long hill of Pembury.
Gradually the rain ceased, the wind died utterly away, the stars
peeped out again. And now, upon the quiet, came the small, soft
sound of trickling water, while the air was fragrant with a thousand
sweet scents and warm, moist, earthy smells.
But on galloped the great, black horse, by pointed oast-house, by
gloomy church, on and ever on, his nostrils flaring, his eye wild,
his laboring sides splashed with mire and streaked with foam and
blood; on he galloped, faltering a little, stumbling a little, his
breath coming in sobbing gasps, but maintaining still his long,
racing stride; thundering through sleeping hamlets and waking echoes
far and near, failing of strength, scant of breath, but indomitable
still.
Oh, mighty "Four-legs"! Oh, "Terror"! whose proud heart scorns defeat!
to-night thou dost race as ne'er thou didst before, pitting thy
strength and high courage against old Time himself! Therefore on, on,
brave horse, enduring thy anguish as best thou may, nor look for
mercy from the pitiless human who bestrides thee, who rides
grim-lipped, to give death and, if need be, to taste of its
bitterness himself, and who, unsparing of himself, shall neither
spare thee.
On, on, brave horse, endure as best thou may, since Death rides thee
to-night.
Now, in a while, Barnabas saw before him a wide street flanked on
either hand by cottages, and with an ancient church beyond. And, as
he looked at this church with its great, square tower outlined
against the starry heaven, there came, borne to his ears, the
fretful wailing of a sleepless child; therefore he checked his going
and, glancing about, espied a solitary lighted window. Riding thither,
he raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, tapped upon the
panes; and, in a while, the casement was opened and a man peered
forth, a drowsy being, touzled of head and round of eye.
"Pray," said Barnabas, "what village is this?"
"Why, sir," answered the man, "five an' forty year I've lived here,
and always heard as it was called Headcorn."
"Headcorn," said Barnabas, nodding, "then Ashleydown should be near
here?"
"Why, sir," said the man, nodding in turn, "I do believe
you--leastways it were here about yesterday."
"And where is it?"
"Half a mile back down the road, you must ha' passed it, sir. A
great house it be though inclined to ruination. And it lays back
from the road wi' a pair o' gates--iron gates as is also ruinated,
atween two stone pillars wi' a lion a-top of each, leastways if it
ain't a lion it's a griffin, which is a fab'lous beast. And talking
of beasts, sir, I do believe as that theer dratted child don't never
mean to sleep no more. Good night to ye, sir--and may you sleep
better a-nights than a married man wi' seven on 'em." Saying which,
he nodded, sighed, and vanished.
So back rode Barnabas the way he had come, and presently, sure enough,
espied the dim outlines of the two stone columns each with "a lion
a-top," and between these columns swung a pair of rusted iron gates;
and the gates were open, seeing which Barnabas frowned and set his
teeth, and so turned to ride between the gates, but, even as he did
so, he caught the sound of wheels far down the road. Glancing
thither he made out the twinkling lights of an approaching chaise,
and sat awhile to watch its slow progress, then, acting upon sudden
impulse, he spurred to meet it. Being come within hail he reined in
across the road, and drawing a pistol levelled it at the startled
post-boy.
"Stop!" cried Barnabas.
Uttering a frightened oath, the postilion pulled up with a jerk, but
as the chaise came to a standstill a window rattled down. Then
Barnabas lowered the pistol, and coming up beside the chaise looked
down into the troubled face of my Lady Cleone. And her checks were
very pale in the light of the lanterns, and upon her dark lashes was
the glitter of tears.