So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor:--"Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, I _do_ believe." The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished. Never was squadron of cavalry sooner in the saddle, after getting orders, than was "Walwyn's Horse" on that night. In less than twenty minutes later, they went at a gallop through the north-western gate of Gloucester, opened to give them exit; then on along the flooded causeway, riding rowells deep, plunging and flinging the spray-drops high in air, till every man was dripping wet, from the plume in his hat to the spurs upon his heels. CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR. A HOUSE ON FIRE. The moon had risen, but only to be seen at intervals. Heavy cumuli drifting sluggishly athwart the sky, now and then drew curtain-like over her disk, making the earth dark as Erebus. Between these recurrent cloud eclipses, however, her light was of the clearest; for the atmosphere otherwise was without haze or mist. She was shining in full effulgence, as a body of horsemen commenced breasting the pitch which winds up from Mitcheldean to the Wilderness. Their distinctive standard was sheathed--not needing display in the night; but the green uniforms, and the cocks'-tail feathers pluming their hats, told them to be Walwyn's Horse--the Foresters. They were still wet with the flood-water through which they had waded after clearing the gates of Gloucester. Their horses too; the coats of these further darkened by sweat, save where the flakes of white froth, tossed back on their necks and counters, gave them a piebald appearance. All betokened a terrible pace, and such had they kept up, scarce slowing for an instant from the flood's edge till they entered the town of Mitcheldean. Then it was but a momentary halt in the street, and without leaving the saddle; just long enough to inquire whether Master Ambrose Powell had that day passed through the place. He had; late in the afternoon. On horseback, without any attendant, and apparently in great haste. "Prisoner or not, they have him at Hollymead now," observed Sir Richard to Eustace Trevor, as they trotted on through the town to the foot of the hill where the road runs up to the Wilderness. To gallop horses already blown against that steep acclivity would have been to kill them. But the leader of the party, familiar with it, did not put them to the test; instead, commanded a walk. And while riding side by side, he and his troop captain held something of a lengthened conversation, up to that time only a few hurried words having been exchanged between them. "I wish the letter had been a little more explicit as to their numbers," said Sir Richard. "About two hundred may mean three, or only one. A woman's estimate is not the most reliable in such matters."