"Then we'll stick to the main road as long as possible and stop at the first inn after all danger-spots are behind us. Sorry to turn you out, Madge, but it was impossible to stop once Weir found us out, since Kingston and his men might have turned up at any moment, and then we should have been done for. All we have to do is to get north of him. From the south we have nothing to fear now. Brocton's dragoons would have turned up hours ago if there was any intention of trying to recapture me. Freake had sent one of his men down the road to give us time to clear off if Brocton did pursue. That was why I was content to stay on at the inn." "Weir knows who you are, sir, I take it?" said I. "Exactly. He's a notorious Government spy, and is busy here worming into our local plans. There are plenty of the honest party hereabouts, and especially over to the west there in Wales." "Are we still in Staffordshire, Master Wheatman?" asked Margaret. "Oh yes, for quite a distance ahead," I replied. "The spirit of prophecy is upon me, gentlemen," she said merrily. "Our Staffordshire luck is not yet out, and this time it's Master Wheatman's turn." "Well, then, Master Wheatman shall ride ahead and scout for it. About thirty yards, Oliver. Keep your horse well in hand, and be all eyes and ears. Damn this moon! It picks us out like three crows on a field of snow, and this infernal road's as straight and level as a plank. Ride in any available shadow!" I went ahead and set them an easy pace. Work had begun again, the work of my heart's desire, and all along the Chester road there was no blither spirit than mine that night. I was astride a flaming sorrel, no match for Sultan, but still a good sound horse. He knew I was his master and so I made him a friend, patting his neck, crooning to him, and giving him a lick of sugar out of my hand. The danger we were in was like wine to my heart. Enemies ahead and enemies behind, and this bare, bleak, moon-smitten road between. Now and again, for remembrance' sake and the joy of it, I cocked my ear to pick out the patter of Margaret's mare from the heavier, longer strides of Sultan. Yes, there she was, doubtless murmuring Italian love-ditties to her happy inmost self and thinking of--Pshaw! This was romancing, and another's romance at that, and it deadened me against my will, while here was a man's work to do. So I turned to it and lived.