"Gabriel Hirst has bidden me thank God for my escape," he said. "I do thank God, from my whole heart fervently. Neighbours, we are going to forget what has passed to-night, remembering only that we have a man among us--a man to the tips of his fingers. And his name is Gabriel Hirst." CHAPTER XXIV. A TALE FROM THE HEART OF THE NIGHT. Lomax, feeling a sudden desire to stretch his legs, set off at five of an October afternoon to walk to Ludworth. His mother was staying at Gorsthwaite for a day or two, and there was no chance of Kate's feeling lonely if he were late in getting back. Though it was fine enough overhead when he set off, he found it heavy-going on the rutty old packroad, superseded long ago by the good hard road that leads past the stoups and Sorrowstones Spring. The rains had been heavy of late; already the clouds were thickening again as he gained Tinker's Pool, and not a trace of the moon was to be seen. Repairing, sharp-set, to the White Swan for one of the solid meals which that hostelry affected, he chanced to meet a horse-dealer of his acquaintance in the bar; the dealer had a neat little bay for sale, and Griff was in need of another horse. It was agreed, finally, that the bay should be brought to Gorsthwaite the next morning for inspection, and Griff began to talk of starting off again. But a look out-of-doors made him think twice about it. The night showed black as pitch, and rain was coming down in bucketsful. "You'll none be crossing the moor to-night, Mr. Lomax?" said the dealer, peering over his shoulder. "I must, sometime; but it might be as well to wait a bit and see if it lifts. We'll have another drink, at any rate." At the end of an hour or so the rain slackened pace, and the moon tried hard to elbow her way through the clouds. Griff, grown impatient of sitting in the musty bar-room, would hear of no more delay. "My advice to you, sir, is--keep to the new road through Cranshaw; it'll be fearful dark the other way, and ankle-deep in water," was the dealer's parting injunction.