I had not looked to the spy. Now a shot rang out down the lane on his side. It was followed by a piercing shriek, and this by another shot. In between the shots, the serjeant wheeled round, and raced off down the lane for dear life, spurring and flogging like a maniac. It was useless to follow. My rein hand had lost its grip, my arm felt aflame, and blood was already dripping fast from my helpless fingers. Looking down the lane, I saw Weir lying in the road, and a strange horseman climbing down from his saddle. I rode up to him. "How d'ye do?" he said affably. "Sorry I could not get the other chap for you, but I meant having Turnditch. The dirty rascal has sent his last lad to the gallows. Faugh! I could spit on his carrion." A glance to the road showed that he was right. The spy's blank, yellow face was turned upwards; his eyes, with the horror of hell still in them, stared wide-open at the sky. Just above his right eyebrow there was a hole I could have put my finger in. "Damn my silly eyes!" cried the stranger. "You're winged, sir, and badly. It must be seen to at once." He helped me down, took off my coat and waistcoat, and turned up my shirt-sleeve, doing all this deftly and almost womanly. "Hurrah! Missed the bone and gone clear through! Put you right in no time! Plug down your finger there, sir, while I cut a stick. That's excellent. You won't mind if I keep you while I reload my barkers? The safe side, you know!" With his handkerchief and my own, and a length of hazel for a tourniquet, he bound up the wound, and with much skill, for he at once reduced the flow of blood to a mere trickle. While he was busy over me, I took stock of him. He was a man of about my own age and height, but slimmer and wirier. His features were rather irregular, but an intelligent, humorous look atoned for this defect, and his bright grey eyes were the quickest I have ever seen. Though an utter stranger, there was a puzzling familiarity about him, and I tried hard to recall which of my acquaintance featured him. His horse, now cropping at the roadside, was a splendid brown blood mare, the best horse, barring Sultan, I had seen for many a day. The last thing I noted was that the man was singularly well dressed. "That's patched you up till you can get to a regular doctor. There's a first-class man at Stockport, opposite the west door of the church, Bamford by name. You can't miss his place, and he'll pocket his fee like a wise man ind ask no questions." "You've done very well, sir," said I. "The blood has almost ceased to flow. I'm greatly beholden to you." "Say no more!" he cried earnestly. "It's a boon you've conferred on me, if you only knew it. _Nemo repente turpissimus_, as we say." "_Video proboque_, as we also say," I countered, smiling.