of Luke, swerved; and the sexton, dislodged from his “high estate,” fell at the edge of the trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom.
Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken; and Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, and without condescending to make any reply, yet muttering curses, “not loud, but deep,” accepted his grandson’s proffered hand, and remounted.
While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout, and noting whence the sound proceeded — the same quarter by which he had approached the heath — he beheld a single horseman spurring in their direction at the top of his speed; and to judge from the rate at which he advanced, it was evident he was anything but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke expedited the sexton’s ascent; and that accomplished, without bestowing further regard upon the object of his solicitude, he resumed his headlong flight. He now thought it necessary to bestow more attention on his choice of road, and, perfectly acquainted with the heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes. In spite of his knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his horse, the stranger sensibly gained upon him. The danger, however, was no longer imminent.
“We are safe,” cried Luke; “the limits of Hardchase are past. In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I will turn the horse loose, and we will betake ourselves to flight amongst the trees. I will show you a place of concealment. He cannot follow us on horseback, and on foot I defy him.”
“Stay,” cried the sexton. “He is not in pursuit — he takes another course — he wheels to the right. By Heaven! it is the Fiend himself upon a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. See, he is there already.”
The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering towards a revolting object at some little distance on the right hand. It was a gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards it, and, reining in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly to the carcase that swung in the morning breeze. Just at that moment a gust of air catching the fleshless skeleton, its arms seemed to be waved in reply to the salutation. A solitary crow winged its flight over the horseman’s head as he paused. After a moment’s halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted to Luke, waving his hat.
“As I live,” said the latter, “it is Jack Palmer.”
“Dick Turpin, you mean,” rejoined the sexton. “He has been paying his respects to a brother blade. Ha, ha! Dick will never have the honor of a gibbet; he is too tender of the knife. Did you mark the crow? But here he comes.” And in another instant Turpin was by their side.
CHAPTER 2
A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT
I see a column of slow-rising smoke O’ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.
Cowper: The Task.
“The top of the morning to you, gem’men,” said Turpin, as he rode up at an easy canter. “Did you not hear my halloo? I caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I knew you both, two miles off; and so, having a word or two to say to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this part of the country, I put Bess to it, and she soon brought me within hail. Bless her black skin,” added he, affectionately patting his horse’s neck, “there’s not her match in these parts, or in any other; she wants no coaxing to do her work — no bleeders for her. I should have been up with you before this had I not taken a cross cut to look at poor Ben.
One night, when mounted on my mare.
To Bagshot Heath I did repair,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,
With a rustified, fustified, mustified air.
Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound, comrades?”
“Comrades!” whispered the sexton to Luke; “you see he does not so easily forget his old friends.”
“I have business that will not admit of delay,” rejoined Luke; “and to speak plainly ——”
“You want not my society,” returned Turpin; “I guessed as much. Natural enough! You have got an inkling of your good fortune. You have found out you are a rich man’s heir, not a poor wench’s bastard. No offence; I’m a plain spoken man, as you will find, if you know it not already. I have no objection to your playing these fine tricks on others, though it won’t answer your turn to do so with me.”
“Sir!” exclaimed Luke, sharply.
“Sir to you,” replied Turpin —“Sir Luke — as I suppose you would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is as good as a wink to me. Last night I learned the fact of Sir Piers’s marriage from Lady Rookwood — ay, from her ladyship. You stare — and old Peter, there, opens his ogles now. She let it out by accident; and I am in possession of what can alone substantiate your father’s first marriage, and establish your claims to the property.”
“The devil!” cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to Luke, “You had better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an acquaintance.”
“You are jesting,” said Luke to Turpin.
“It is ill jesting before breakfast,” returned Dick: “I am seldom in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage certificate had fallen into my hand?”
“A marriage certificate!” echoed Luke and the sexton simultaneously.
“The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood with Susan Bradley,” continued Turpin. “What if I had stumbled upon such a document — nay more, if I knew where to direct you to it?”
“Peace!” cried Luke to his tormentor; and then addressing Turpin, “if what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All that I need, you appear to possess. Other proofs are secondary to this. I know with whom I have to deal. What do you demand for that certificate?”
“We will talk about the matter after breakfast,” said Turpin. “I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on those terms, and I am your man; reject my offer, and I turn my mare’s head, and ride back to Rookwood. With me now rest all your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you, and I expect to be fairly dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now I have an opportunity, that I should not turn this luck to my account. I were a fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have Rust and Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind, they know my destination. We have been old associates. I like your spirit — I care not for your haughtiness; but I will not help you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you understand me. Whither are you bound?”
“To Davenham Priory, the gipsy camp.”
“The gipsies are your friends?”
“They are.”
“I am alone.”
“You are safe.”
“You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You will not mention
