The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the tree by the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmore struggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well. Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice he shouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unless a chance traveller came along the road he could not get released until the day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all his strength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will was bent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him that to-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwitted him for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again, and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lost consciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit and fierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to grow stiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himself into a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes, but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall. The coach would certainly make for the coast presently. Some delay there must be before reaching it, and further delay before a vessel could be found to carry the fugitives into safety. Crosby could not possibly be prepared for what had happened, and time must be wasted in making up his mind how to use to the best advantage the trick in the game which had fallen to him. Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, must be cautious how he went, and caution meant delay at every turn. He would not easily escape. So the dawn found Lord Rosmore with aching limbs but with a clear brain, and he looked about him, as far as he was able, wondering from which direction help would most likely come. On the ground, at a little distance from him, lay a heavy coat, just as Barbara had thrown it from the coach last night, and a growling oath came from Rosmore's dry lips. He wished with all his heart that he had delivered her into Judge Jeffreys' hands in Dorchester. She would have been just such a delicate morsel as the loathsome brute would have gloated over. How easily, too, he might have had Crosby hanged in chains. He had been a fool to let love influence him. Then his eyes turned slowly to the ground immediately in front of him. The turf was cut and trampled where the highwayman had been, by the impatient hoofs of his pawing horse, and there lay in the very centre of the trampled patch a leather case. It must have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwayman unwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin? The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for coming succour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound, for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.