Everell had now put the second pistol into the opposite coat pocket, believing that the letter gave him sufficient control over Foxwell’s actions. But he kept his hand upon his sword-hilt, intending that Foxwell should walk in front of him to the horses. “A moment, pray,” said Foxwell. “Consider the legal position I shall be left in if I assist you. It does not suit me to fly the country, as it does you.” “Who will trouble you on that score? Certainly this booby justice will not desire to publish a matter in which he makes so poor a figure. He knows not who I am. In what crime can he then accuse you of aiding me? The abduction and the horse-stealing you need not pursue—you have signed no charge, sworn to none.” “The theft of the letter,” said Foxwell. “If I help you to escape, I shall be accessory to that.” “But you say he has no right to its possession. In any case, you can show him how ridiculous he will appear. I think you run little risk; but be that as it may, I must think of my own risk. Every moment adds to it; and to the danger of this letter coming to wrong hands. So, if you please, to the horses.” A curious look was on Foxwell’s face. It was true that any struggle with Everell in the presence of Thornby or his people might result in the letter’s falling again into that gentleman’s hands. But there was now no such person to interfere. A quick sword-thrust—which could be justified as against an escaping rebel—might win the letter in a moment; Foxwell could destroy it immediately at the fire, and make his peace with Thornby by releasing him and showing his outrage avenged. No danger, then, of the letter’s capture in the long journey of a fugitive, or of Thornby’s attempting retaliation by course of law. It was all seen in an instant. Foxwell’s sword flashed in the air, and Everell had to spring aside to save himself. “Ah, treacherous!” cried the young man, as his own blade leaped out.