“Ha! ha! ha! No fears of Tom Kidde, an he knows our caliber, jumping out upon us!” laughs Lord Wootton. “’Slife! Sir, he’s the sort of highwayman to jump out on the best mettle that strides horse-flesh or carries gold. The young devil’s afraid of nothing that breathes, and has been the terror of travelers now these three or four years gone,” says Vane. “He’s not above one-and-twenty, smooth-faced as a girl, those say who’ve caught a glimpse of him under his mask; dresses like a macaroni, voiced like a choir-singer, and nimble as an Indian monkey!” “Frequents he this neighborhood?” queries Lady Peggy, who at mention of the word “highwayman” has tightened her rein, clapped a hand on her holster, and felt her heart thump, as she involuntarily connects it with possible danger to Percy. “That he does,” said Mr. Chalmers. “His den, or one of ’em’s somewhere in the depths of Epstowe; and no one can tell when or where he’s like to turn up next.” “When did he turn up last?” says Sir Wyatt, laughing. “I can tell you,” returns Vane. “’Twas about Candlemas. I was down at home on a visit from town, when the news came, almost frightening my mother out of her wits, and setting the maids a-shivering like so many poppies in a storm. Tom Kidde had pounced on Lord Brookwood not a mile from his own gates, lifted him off his mount in the politest fashion imaginable, rifled His Lordship’s pockets, appropriated his weapons, and ridden off on his victim’s horse, leaving His Lordship tied to a tree at the roadside, where he was found by Biggs, the J.P., the next morning, a-bellowin’ and a-cursin’ like a wild bull.” A hearty laugh greets Mr. Vane’s description. “Yes, but that ain’t all of’t, My Lords and Gentlemen,” continues he. “By no means!” cries Beau Brummell, out of his fit of hilarity. “I recall now, that I rode over from Lauriston Castle, where I was visiting, that very morning, and heard the adventure from Brookwood himself. I fancy he had the laugh, or will have it some day, on Tom, or some of his men, for the stolen mare was none other than His Lordship’s famous ‘Homing Nell.’” “Is it possible!” exclaims Sir Percy, “the mare that’s been taken off a hundred miles, let loose, and finds her way home again; the mare that’s been sold and ridden fifty miles away, and then, when she felt a hand at her mouth she could master, has taken the bit between her teeth, and the one in the saddle’s only sometimes been able to keep his seat, and let her take him straight back whence she came?” “The very same ‘Homing Nell.’ Brookwood’s sure of her getting back sooner or later,” says the Beau. “They’ll never catch Tom, though,” cries Escombe. “If they do,” remarks Vane, “he’ll hang not two hours after he’s bagged; his death-warrant’s been lying signed in Mr. Biggs’s pocket-book any time this twelvemonth; and there’s still a gibbet standing on the hill above Brook-Armsleigh Village!”