As he did so Cora listened intently, and made out the beating of horses' hoofs behind, now dying out, now louder, now dying out again, but always heard; and her heart gave a joyful bound as the thought came that an alarm might have been given by Morton Denville, and these be friends in pursuit--Richard Linnell perhaps. Her heart sank like lead. No; she was not afraid of Major Rockley, and she did not care a fig for the opinion of Saltinville society. She had been carried off against her will, and the sneers would be those against Rockley, not against her. The chaise might go on for hours--all night, if the Major liked. The longer it was before he discovered his mistake the greater his rage would be. What was there to fear? If she shrieked the postboys must come to her help, or she could command help at the next stopping-place. And the horsemen coming on? Yes, they were evidently gaining ground, but it was not to overtake her. He was trying to save the woman he loved--he, Richard Linnell--and her heart sank lower and lower still. Then it gave a bound, for there was the click-click of a pistol, just as before now she had heard it on the stage, and Rockley said: "That's right. I'm glad you are quiet. I've got you, and, by Jove, I'll shoot the man who tries to get you away as I would a dog." Volume Two, Chapter XXIX. A LITTLE GOSSIP. That hat which the Master of the Ceremonies raised so frequently to the various visitors looked in its solidity as if it might very well become an heirloom, and descend to his son, should he in more mature life take to his father's duties. Stuart Denville had just replaced it for about the twentieth time that morning, when he encountered Lady Drelincourt in her chair. Her ladyship had been very cold since her visit to the Denvilles, but this particular morning she was all smiles and good humour. "Now, here you are, Denville, and you'll tell me all about it. You were there?" "Yes, dear Lady Drelincourt," said Denville, with his best smile, as he thought of Morton and his possible future. "I was there. At--er--" "Pontardent's, yes. Now, tell me, there's a good man, all about it. Is the Major much hurt? Now, how tiresome! What do you want, Bray? You are always hunting me about with that wicked boy." "No, no," said Sir Matthew, in his ponderous fashion. "Drawn, Lady Drelincourt, drawn. Attracted, eh, Payne?" Sir Harry Payne--"that wicked boy," as he was termed by her ladyship-- declared upon his reputation that Sir Matthew Bray was quite right. It was attraction. "I felt it myself, demme, that I did, horribly, madam; but I said I would be true to my friend Bray, here, and I fled from temptation like a man." "I'm afraid I can't believe you--either of you," said her ladyship, simpering. "But, now, do tell me--no, no, don't go, Denville; I want to talk to you. Sir Harry, now was Major Rockley, that dreadful Mephistopheles, half killed?"