“In the King’s name,” Lillywhite shouted, “get off that nag and lend a hand! We’ve a prisoner.” The horseman gave an incredulous whistle, and then began to shout, his voice winding mournfully uphill, “Hallo! Hallo--o--o.” An echo stole back, “Hallo! Hallo--o--o”; then a number of voices. The horse stood, drooping its head, and the man turned in his saddle. “Runners,” he shouted, “Bow Street runners! Come along, come along, boys! We’ll roast ’em.... Runners! Runners!” The sound of heavy horses at a jolting trot came to our ears. “We’re in for it,” Lillywhite grunted. “D------n this county of Kent.” Thorns never loosed his hold of my collar. At the steep of the hill the men and horses came into sight against the white sky, a confused crowd of ominous things. “Turn that lanthorn off’n me,” the horseman said. “Don’t you see you frighten my horse? Now, boys, get round them....” The great horses formed an irregular half-circle round us; men descended clumsily, like sacks of corn. The lanthorn was seized and flashed upon us; there was a confused hubbub. I caught my own name. “Yes, I’m Kemp... John Kemp,” I called. “I’m true blue.” “Blue be hanged!” a voice shouted back. “What be you a-doing with runners?” The riot went on--forty or fifty voices. The runners were seized; several hands caught at me. It was impossible to make myself heard; a fist struck me on the cheek. “Gibbet ’em,” somebody shrieked; “they hung my nephew! Gibbet ’em all the three. Young Kemp’s mother’s a bad ’un. An informer he is. Up with ’em!” I was pulled down on my knees, then thrust forward, and then left to myself while they rushed to bonnet Lillywhite. I stumbled against a great, quiet farm horse. A continuous scuffling went on; an imperious voice cried: “Hold your tongues, you fools! Hold your tongues!...” Someone else called: “Hear to Jack Rangsley. Hear to him!” There was a silence. I saw a hand light a torch at the lanthorn, and the crowd of faces, the muddle of limbs, the horses’ heads, and the quiet trees above, flickered into sight. “Don’t let them hang me, Jack Rangsley,” I sobbed. “You know I’m no spy. Don’t let ’em hang me, Jack.” He rode his horse up to me, and caught me by the collar. “Hold your tongue,” he said roughly. He began to make a set speech, anathematizing runners. He moved to tie our feet, and hang us by our finger-nails over the quarry edge. A hubbub of assent and dissent went up; then the crowd became unanimous. Rangsley slipped from his horse. “Blindfold ’em, lads,” he cried, and turned me sharply round. “Don’t struggle,” he whispered in my ear; his silk handkerchief came cool across my eyelids. I felt hands fumbling with a knot at the back of my head. “You’re all right,” he said again. The hubbub of voices ceased suddenly. “Now, lads, bring ’em along.” A voice I knew said their watchword, “Snuff and enough,” loudly, and then, “What’s agate?” Someone else answered, “It’s Rooksby, it’s Sir Ralph.”