“No fear, Sir,” cries the lackey, “our pistols are loaded and cocked; with your own rapier, pistols and the blunderbuss, Sir Robin, we should—” “What’s that?” exclaims the second man, eyes bulging, as with the handle of his whip he points to the fallen figure by the brookside. “Zounds!” cries the first, rising in his seat to peer. “’Sdeath! Damnation!” squeaks Sir Robin, pulling down the coach-sash. “On with ye, you devils! On, I say!” thumping impatiently on the pane with his signet ring. “No fear, Sir, no fear, Sir Robin!” exclaims the second man, jumping to the ground and inspecting Her Ladyship. “It’s only a corp.” “Are you sure?” opening the door cautiously. “Sure?” “Aye, Sir Robin, a quality corp, Sir. Mayhap shot down by them vagabones out of the heath. Had I best see if there’s any life left in the young gentleman, Sir?” Sir Robin descends from his coach, a pistol in one hand, a drawn rapier in the other. “Keep an eye on the lookout, James,” he whispers to the postilion who remains in his seat, and the Baronet minces in and out of the tall grasses, shaking the dew daintily from his sprawling feet, until he gains the spot, where his man kneels above the prostrate form. “Ugh!” says he, turning aside his head in a species of disgust, “I never could abide the sight of the dead.” ’Twas the very first time in his life he’d ever had a chance to behold such! “He ain’t quite cold yet, Sir Robin,” says the postilion. “There’s a flicker to his eye-lids, Sir, look!” The Baronet looks; out of his hands tumble rapier and pistol. “’Slife!” he cries, down on his knees, feeling at Her Ladyship’s pulse, pulling his flask from his pocket and trying vainly to pour the liquor between the firmly shut lips. As he tries, the little gentleman’s wits work nimbly, which they could do on occasions, and, not stopping even to wonder at his discovery, only to accept instantly as a fact that his Lady had been struck down while pursuing him, he is so overjoyed at the beauty, sentiment, and opportuneness of the adventure, as to be scarce able to restrain his elation, even in the face of a serious swoon. “Into the coach at once, James,” he says, raising Her Ladyship’s head himself, “your gentlest endeavors and a guinea apiece to you,” nodding to the other, as between them they carry the limp form to the coach, “if you bring me to Kennaston Castle before curfew.” “Never fear, Sir Robin; if the young gentleman only holds out for a single hour, I swear, Sir, in the teeth of all the highwaymen in the kingdom, we’ll have you there.” “Tut, tut,” says Sir Robin, smiling, no longer restraining an expression of his happiness and triumph, as he makes ready the rugs and cushions within to receive the burden James, for the moment, bears alone.