Great Britain -- History -- William and Mary, 1689-1702 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
I took my horse by the bridle, and led it out of the stable, while
Brown went to bit the other. And so, being alone outside, and the moon
rising at the moment over the roof of the house and showing me the
open gates at the end of the yard, the impulse to escape from Smith
while I had the opportunity came on me with overpowering force. Better
acquainted than the landlord with the villain's plans I had not a
doubt that at that very moment he was laming Sir John's horse for the
purpose of detaining him; and the cold-blooded treachery of this act,
filling me with as much terror on my own account--who might be the
next victim--as hatred of the perpetrator, I climbed softly to my
saddle, and began to walk my horse towards the gates. Doubtless Smith
was too busy, cloaking his own movements, to be observant of mine. I
reached the gates unnoticed, and turning instinctively from London--in
which direction I fancied that he would be sure to pursue me--I kicked
my mare first into a quick walk, then into a cautious trot, finally
into a canter. The beast, though far from speedy, was fresh from its
corn; it took hold of the bit, shied at a chance light in a cotter's
window, and went faster and faster, its ears pricked forward. In a
minute we had left Ashford behind us, and were clattering through the
moonlight. With one hand on the pommel and the other holding the
shortened reins I urged the mare on with all the pressure of my legs;
and albeit I trembled, now at some late-seen obstacle, which proved to
be only the shadow of a tree, thrown across the road, and now at the
steepness of a descent that appeared suddenly before me, I never
faltered, but uphill and downhill drove in my heels, and with fear
behind me, rode in the night as I had never before dared to ride in
the daylight.
I had known nothing like it since the summer day twelve years before
when I had fled across the Hertfordshire meadows on my feet. The sweat
ran down me, I stooped in the saddle out of pure weakness; if the
horse pricked its ears forward I spread mine backward listening for
sounds of pursuit. But such a speed could not be long maintained, and
when we had gone, as I judged, two miles, the mare began to flag, and
the canter became a trot. Still for another mile I urged her on, until
feeling her labour under me, and foreseeing that I must ride far, I
had the thought to turn into the first lane to which I came, and there
wait in the shadow of a tree until Smith, if he followed, should pass.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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