The attorney was brave with a coward's great bravery; he was afraid, but
he went on. As he climbed into his saddle in the stable-yard, the
muttering ostlers standing round, and the yellow-flaring light of the
lanthorns stretching fingers into the darkness, he could have wept for
himself. Beyond the gates and the immediate bustle of the yard lay
night, the road, and dimly-guessed violences; the meeting of man with
man, the rush to grips under some dark wood, or where the moonlight fell
cold on the heath.
The prospect terrified; at the mere thought the
lawyer dropped the reins and nervously gathered them. And he had another
fear, and one more immediate. He was no horseman, and he trembled lest
Sir George, the moment the gates were passed, should go off in a
reckless gallop. Already he felt his horse heave and sidle under him, in
a fashion that brought his heart into his mouth; and he was ready to cry
for quarter. But the absurdity of the request where time was everything,
the journey black earnest, and its issue life and death, struck him, and
heroically he closed his mouth. Yet, at the remembrance that these
things were, he fell into a fresh panic.
However, for a time there was to be no galloping. Sir George when all
were up took a lanthorn from the nearest man, and bidding one of the
others run at his stirrup, led the way into the road, where he fell into
a sharp trot, his servant and Mr. Fishwick following. The attorney
bumped in his saddle, but kept his stirrups and gradually found his
hands and eyesight. The trot brought them to Manton Corner and the empty
house; where Sir George pulled up and dismounted. Giving his reins to
the stable-boy, he thrust open the doors of the yard and entered,
holding up his lanthorn, his spurs clinking on the stones and his
skirts swaying.
'But she--they cannot be here?' the lawyer ejaculated, his teeth
chattering.
Sir George, busy stooping and peering about the yard, which was
grass-grown and surrounded by walls, made no answer; and the other two,
as well as Mr. Fishwick, wondered what he would be at. But in a moment
they knew. He stooped and took up a small object, smelt it, and held it
out to them. 'What is that?' he asked curtly.
The stable-man who was holding his horse stared at it. 'Negro-head, your
honour,' he said. 'It is sailors' tobacco.' 'Who uses it about here?' 'Nobody to my knowing.' 'They are from Bristol, then,' Soane answered. And then 'Make way!' he
continued, addressing the other two who blocked the gateway; and
springing into his saddle he pressed his horse between them, his
stirrups dangling. He turned sharp to the left, and leaving the
stable-man to stare after them, the lanthorn swaying in his hand, he led
the way westward at the same steady trot.