There he lies listening to the streams which babble on each side far below, and anon--shall we tell it to his shame--falls asleep. He is awoke by the murmur of voices. “I tell thee the old fellow is worth a mint of money, and Jack Cantfull, who is the ostler at the ‘Rose and Crown,’ says he rides all alone to Moreton, and goes through this pass, but why he takes this road instead of the other I know not, only Jack is to be his guide.” “He will pay for knocking on the head!” “Jack will expect his share when the deed is done.” “Nay,” said another voice, “no throat cutting or head splitting, if it can be done without.” “Thou hast become scrupulous, Tony; hast thou forgotten the colour of blood?” “Nay, as I am a true Gubbing,[30] I mind it no more than ale, when called upon to shed it, but we need not make the country too hot to hold us.” “Dead men tell no tales.” “Well, we must be moving, he was to start at six.” And soon Cuthbert heard them climb down the slope from a cave (well known to him, but which happily he had not entered) below the summit on which he had been reposing. They had gone to beset the pass higher up. So soon as the sound of their footsteps had ceased, Cuthbert descended or rather _slid_ down the hill into the road beneath, behind the men, and in spite of his fatigue, walked rapidly back towards Bovey. Soon he came to the junction of two roads--the one, the upper way, leading through the pass and so to Chagford, and by a circuitous route to Moreton; the other a branch road which led more directly to the latter town, which the traveller had abandoned: to take, for his own reasons, a more circuitous and difficult route under a treacherous guide. At the point where the ways met Cuthbert waited, and shortly heard the sound of horses; he then beheld the riders--the one a tall dark looking man, evidently of rank and importance, the other a sort of stable helper from the inn at Bovey. “Stand,” cried Cuthbert, “I would fain speak with you, sir.” “Who is this, who cries ‘stand’ upon the King’s highway?” “A friend, one who would save you, Sir John, if you be Sir John; danger lurks ahead; three cut-throats, ‘Gubbings,’ they call them about here, a half-gipsy brood, lie in wait at the pass, and lurk for your life.” “How sayest thou, my lad? Look, sirrah, what sayest thou to this?” But the treacherous groom had heard all, and rode on at full gallop, barely escaping a pistol-shot his indignant employer sent after him. “He will bring them back in no time: take the lower road.” “And thou, my poor lad, they will avenge themselves on thee.” “Nay, I know every turn in the woods; I can run home.” “Sore uneasy should I be for thee. Ah, see, the rogues appear, they heard the shot.” About half-a-mile along the road, moving forms rapidly running towards them might be obscurely discerned as they turned a crest of the hill. “Jump behind, thou canst ride ‘pillion.’”