“I marvel much,” soliloquised he, pensively, “whether the fair demoiselle has forgotten me;” and he sighed audibly. “By the rood!” exclaimed Collingham, anxiously, “I fear me that ancient shrew guesses who you are. She has eyes like a hawk, and this encounter may be our death.” But it was too late to remedy the mischief, if mischief had been done, and having urged on the boatman they were soon set ashore on the Surrey side, at a little wharf hard by London Bridge, and without loss of time took their way to the White Hart, where Collingham, having given mine host some excuse for so sudden a departure, paid their reckoning, while Oliver saddled and bridled their horses, and brought them from the stable. “Now horse and away,” said Collingham, as he sprang into his saddle. “I hardly deem they can track us, even if they try, and anyhow we have the start.” “True,” said Oliver, as he mounted, not without directing a glance at an ancient-looking battle-axe that hung at his saddle-bow; “and yet I cannot but mutter a malison on the luck that makes me dependent on the speed of such a haquenée at such a moment. Had I but my gallant Ayoub beneath me, small danger would there be of my impeding your progress;” and as he spoke they rode on, turning their faces southward. “Fear not,” replied Collingham, dauntlessly; “if the old hack has not speed he hath endurance, and I doubt not will carry you fast enough to sup and sleep this night in the Sussex forest;” and they pursued their way, frequently turning aside, however, to avoid the habitations of men, and confining themselves as much as possible to the woods and woodlands. Such, indeed, was the course they took, that the idea of being traced was one which it seemed unreasonable to entertain. But a craving for revenge sharpens mortal invention, and Sir Anthony Waledger was in no mood to be baffled. Besides, other keen eyes besides those of Dame Waledger had been on them. As they mounted in haste at the White Hart, Clem the Bold Rider, who had accompanied De Moreville to London, and gone on a visit to the hostler, was hanging about the stables of the inn, and patting the head of a russet bloodhound, which he seemed to have taken under his especial charge, and which he addressed as Canmore. No sooner did they ride away than Clem, committing the dog to the care of the hostler, left the White Hart, and hurried away to Westminster with intelligence of what he had seen. “Ho, ho!” cried Sir Anthony Waledger, joyfully, “the saints have delivered them into our hands;” and without even waiting to consult De Moreville, the knight mounted, with Clem the Bold Rider and ten other men at his back, and hastily as the crowded streets would permit of their doing, made for London Bridge, crossed to Southwark, and rode forward to the White Hart, to set the bloodhound on the track of the fugitives.