“Curse him! how can he ride after that?” he exclaimed. “Ha! he reels in the saddle! Fire again, men! fire again! Now he clings to the horse’s neck--he must fall--he is ours! he is ours! Evil shall hunt the wicked person to overthrow him!” At that instant one of the Prince’s troopers, finding his way blocked by the fanatic, pushed roughly past. “Out of the way, you prating Puritan!” he cried, “or I’ll dash your brains out!” And with that he dealt Waghorn a blow on the head which left him groaning on the ground. CHAPTER XXXIX. One loving howre For many years of sorrow can dispence; A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre. . . . true is, that true love hath no powre, To looken backe; his eyes be fixt before. --Spenser. Meanwhile Massey, with great coolness and ability, retreated in good order with the remainder of his men to Gloucester, but many had been made prisoners, and about a hundred and twenty had been killed in the street and in the hot pursuit. Had it not been for Waghorn’s words to the Royalists, Gabriel might have made his escape as easily as the Governor of Gloucester had anticipated. But, learning that important despatches were so nearly within their reach, some four or five troopers gave chase to him with a heat and determination that only increased with each mile traversed. Bullets whistled about his ears, but on he sped, every nerve strained in the wild excitement of the ride, all pain for the time overcome by the intense desire to carry out his task. A second ball struck the already injured arm, making a ghastly flesh wound. Still he galloped on, but, alas! with the horrible consciousness that his pursuers were gaining on him. His strength was fast failing when the sound of church bells fell on his ear; surely they were the bells of Bosbury? Hardly conscious of the direction he had taken, only galloping madly across country to baffle his pursuers, he had indeed approached within a short distance of the village, which lay in the valley below embosomed in trees. For the time being he was out of sight of the Royalist troopers, and, with a word to Harkaway, he put the horse at a hedge which seemed a little off the course he had ridden. The horse did his part gallantly, and alighted in a field which sloped steeply down to a tiny brook, but the agony of the leap was too much for the rider. With a stifled groan he fell to the ground, and Harkaway, not understanding his grievous plight, but thankful to find the desperate gallop at an end, unconsciously served his master by going quietly down to drink at the brook.