“Not a word to living mortal!” urged the old man impressively. “It’s as much as my place is worth. I’ve left The Boy safe locked up. You go and get _your_ horse, and meet me in the close. There’s just light enough to gallop ’em. Look alive, man! Whatever should I do if master was to get wind of this here?” Isaac seemed unusually perturbed as he preceded Mr. Tiptop down the creaking stairs, and wended his way to his own stable, leaving the latter—still rather confused—to saddle and bring out the redoubtable Chance. The Honourable Crasher’s groom felt for the first time in his life somewhat puzzled, and taken aback. He had not calculated on such promptitude and decision from a “yokel.” Also, his intellects had hardly recovered the potency of the flip, a beverage of which it requires several hours’ sleep to obviate the effects. Altogether he was sensible of less than his usual self-confidence. In his hurry, too, and by the imperfect light of a stable-lantern, he put the wrong saddle on Chance, who, by the way, was not a very pleasant animal to caparison, save by her own accustomed attendant—a grey-haired, withered old helper, then probably dreaming of the better days most of these ancient stablemen have seen. The snaffle, too, that he wanted was not in its accustomed place. Altogether, it took him some considerable time before he could lead the horse out into the wan light of a morning moon. This interval, however, had enabled him to recover the good opinion he generally entertained of Mr. Tiptop. As he got upon Chance’s back, and felt the animal step lightly and jauntily under him, the conviction came strong upon his mind that in some way or other he was sure to get the better of the yokel. As the conscience-stricken Marmion riding his red-roan by night into the enchanted ground was aware of a phantom cavalier looming dimly in the distance in guise of his deadliest enemy, so Mr. Tiptop, opening the gate of the close which he had appointed for a trysting-place, distinguished the outline of the man and horse with whom he was about to try the speed of his thorough-bred. As he neared his antagonist, he observed that the animal he bestrode was sheeted and hooded, and otherwise so swaddled up in clothing, that there was nothing visible of it, save its legs; and in the uncertain twilight the general effect of the pair much resembled that of those hobby-horses which so delighted our ancestors in their Christmas revels. “Look alive!” exclaimed Mr. Tiptop, somewhat angrily, as a black cloud swept across the moon, and a raw morning breeze dashed a score of sharp rain-drops into his feverish face. “It will be light in half an hour, though it’s as dark as pitch now. Ain’t you going to strip him?” “Strip him!” repeated Isaac, keeping off at a respectful distance the while. “Not I; he always runs kindest in his clothes. Don’t ye come anigh!” he added, as Mr. Tiptop ranged alongside. “He’s werry handy with his heels when he’s at exercise. Are you ready?”