But while the two were drawing their hangers from their belts, Sir Percy, with a swerving dash, pulled the roan on her hind legs directly in front of the galloping leaders. ’Twas but an interposition of Providence (coupled with very excellent cool-headed horsemanship) that he was not then and there dispatched into the hereafter. The leaders plunged, grinding the wheelers with their hind hoofs; the wheelers fell back of a heap, smashing in the fine front glass and cutting Sir Robin across the lip, but not so much as waking his burden from her deathlike sleep. “Down with ye!” cries Sir Percy, a pistol in each hand, as Grigson rides up with another brace to reinforce his master, putting a hand as well to the quieting of the coach horses. “Aye, aye, Sir! but spare our lives and we’ll do your bidding!” cry Sir Robin’s lackeys, leaping to the ground. “We’ve not a groat betwixt us, Your Honor, on our life!” “I want no groats, nor guineas either!” says Percy, now leaving his man to cover the steeds and the postilions, while he jumps off the roan’s back and springs to the side of the coach. To wrest the door from the feeble clutch of the shrieking little gentleman from Kent; to open it; seize him, stopping his frantic and craven cries with a thrust of a pocket napkin in his mouth; to haul him out and send him spinning over the turf with his gold and silver scattering from purse and pockets, is, with Sir Percy, the work of a very few seconds. “Mercy! Mercy! Mr. Highwayman!” whimpers the Baronet, cringing on his knees, as Grigson lifts himself up on the off leader’s back and Percy props the swooning figure within the coach. “’Slife, Sir, whoever you are! Raise your eyes! I am Sir Percy de Bohun, at your service any time three hours hence.” Sir Robin glances up, his crooked little legs now bowing more into an arc than before, as he hears the dread name of his rival. Clapping hand to hilt, however, he stands up. “Sir,” says he, pushed into a valiance he has no smallest sympathy with, solely from fear that Lady Peggy may have open ears by this time. “Sir, that Lady is my affianced. I command you, quit her and leave us to pursue our journey in peace. D’ye hear, Sir?” Sir Robin brandishes his weapon, now reinforced by the approach of his servants. “I’ll stick you where you stand, Sir!” shouts McTart, prancing a bit nearer and actually touching Percy’s shoulder with the point of his weapon,—be it remembered de Bohun’s back was toward him as he leaned into the coach arranging the cushions.