“Ochone, an’ I hope we’ll not be afther bein’ too late to see it all!” chimes in Lady Biddy short-breathed too. “Percy,” says Diana, “up in your saddle and spy, for I’d not have us miss so fine a sight for a hundred pounds!” “No sooner said than done!” answers Sir Percy de Bohun, from atop of his horse, where he shades his eyes with his hand and gazes off to the hill where the gibbet stands. “Good God!” cries he, clapping spurs that send spurts of blood into the eyes of one of the gentlemen, and a shower of sand all over the whole party, and away with him! Tearing up the turf as he goes; into the midst of the strings of gaping, jostling, hurrying folk; scattering ’em right and left, leaving ’em in his wake dumfounded, picking each other up. Through the high street of Brook-Armsleigh Village, clatter! dash! plunge! with prick and urge, and goad of thigh and lash! and straining, starting eyes fixed on the face he sees outlined against the fair blue morning sky; the brave undaunted face, dark, under its yellow hair, bearing the strange likeness to His Lady—His Lady! nay, this is His Lady’s lord and love, for whom he rides,—and with noose about his neck now, and man-of-cloth and man-of-blood both at hand; this one with book, that one with cap, the sea of open faces seething breathless all around. “On! on!” whispers Percy bending to the bow, and whispering hoarsely to the long roan, his very soul in tremor, his lips parched, his forehead and lip dripping sweat. Into the midst of ’em; nearly throwing Lord Brookwood from his seat; off his beast like a thunderbolt, and with a long leap up on the boards beside Lambe, the butcher, and Biggs, the Justice, and Frewen, the Curate. “By God! Sirs,” cries he, “what’s this ye’re doing? This gentleman’s Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent!” tearing the hemp from Her Ladyship’s throat, from her wrists; pushing away the three of ’em, and half lifting the supposed Baronet in his lusty arms, he drags, carries, swings Peg down to the ground, and up into his own saddle. And then the explanations! the astonishments; the monstrous wonder of it. The humility, the subjection, the apologies; the supplications of all these Lords, Gentlemen, Ladies, worthies, worships, vagabonds and multitudes. Woman-like, as she sits there for a few moments, dazed, so sudden fetched from death to life, she has but the thought that ’tis to him she loves she owes deliverance. But none of their hospitality or amends will she have, or even listen to; no tarrying at Brookwood Castle; no smallest glance back for all the wheedles and coaxes of Lady Diana, Lady Biddy, the Honorable Dolly and the rest. All she asks, and gets, is her scrawl from Mr. Frewen.