I pushed on, and Haybittle turned his horse and followed at my heels. Over my shoulder, “I wish you’d seen that Quaker fellow, Burton, a minute ago,” he said. “Lord, he was a figure, Major! He’d borrowed a troop-horse, he told me, and it had tripped over a tent-rope in the lines and given him a fall. His stock was torn—” I turned on the man so sharply, that his horse had much ado not to knock me down. “What?” I cried. “You met Burton—now?” “Two minutes ago. He was riding express for—” “Riding?” “To be sure, riding towards Mobley’s Meeting House, and sharp, too! Why, what is it, man? You look as if you had seen a bailiff!” I did not doubt. In a moment I knew. Though the house stood only twenty paces from us and Paton was at the door, I did not go in to see. A wave of anger, fierce, unreasoning, irresistible swept me away—and yet had I reasoned what else could I have done? I seized Haybittle’s rein with my free hand. “Then follow him!” I cried, pointing the way with my crippled arm. “After him! Ride like fury, man! He’s a spy! After him! Stop him, or shoot him!” Haybittle stared at me as if I had gone mad. “Do you mean it?” he asked. “Are you sure, Major? Quite sure?” He held his cane suspended in the air. “Go, man, go!” I cried, wildly excited. “My order! Follow him, follow him! Fishdam is his point! Turn all after him that you meet. A spy! Shout it before you as you go!” “A spy?” Haybittle yelled. “D—n him, we’ll catch him!” His cane fell, his horse leapt off at a galop. The orderly followed, his knee abreast of the Captain’s crupper. Two troopers of the Fourteenth who were passing, heard the cry, turned their horses, and spurred after them. With a loud View Halloo the four pounded away down the road, spreading the alarm before them, as they rode. Paton who had heard what was said rushed into the house. He did not believe it, I think. In a trice he was out again. “I can’t open the door,” he panted. “The bed is against it. Round the house, Major!” He led the way, we ran round the house. At the back the little window, ten feet from the ground, was open. Below it a plot of rough orchard ground, in which two or three trees had been felled, ran down to a branch. On the farther side of the water were some horse lines. We stared up at the window. “But, d—mme, man, he couldn’t do it!” Paton cried. “He couldn’t pass. Burton is as fat as butter!” I swore. “That’s what I forgot!” I said. “He’s padded! He’s as lean as a herring!” We ran round to the front again. The hallooing came faintly up the road. Already all the camp in that direction was roused and in a ferment. Two troopers galloped by us as we reached the road. An officer followed, spurring furiously. “That’s Swanton on the bay that won the match last week,” Paton said; and he yelled “Forrard away! After him! If Burton is on a common troop-horse,” he continued, “and he cannot have had time to pick and choose, his start won’t save him! The bay will be at his girths within five miles!”