His first thought was for his horse. But Bess was instantly upon her legs — covered with dust and foam, sides and cheeks — and with her large eyes glaring wildly, almost piteously, upon her master.
“Art hurt, lass?” asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman’s scrutiny. “Nothing but a shake; though that dull eye — those quivering flanks ——” added he, looking earnestly at her. “She won’t go much further, and I must give it up — what! give up the race just when it’s won? No, that can’t be. Ha! well thought on. I’ve a bottle of liquid, given me by an old fellow, who was a knowing cove and famous jockey in his day, which he swore would make a horse go as long as he’d a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it for some great occasion. I’ve never used it; but I’ll try it now. It should be in this pocket. Ah! Bess, wench, I fear I’m using thee, after all, as Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like thee. No matter! It will be a glorious end.”
Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents of the bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait long before its invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire was kindled in the glassy orb; her crest was once more erected; her flank ceased to quiver; and she neighed loud and joyously.
“Egad, the old fellow was right,” cried Dick. “The drink has worked wonders. What the devil could it have been? It smells like spirit,” added he, examining the bottle. “I wish I’d left a taste for myself. But here’s that will do as well.” And he drained his flask of the last drop of brandy.
Dick’s limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was with difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary preliminary being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no difficulty in resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We know not whether there was any likeness between our Turpin and that modern Hercules of the sporting world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far be it from us to institute any comparison, though we cannot help thinking that, in one particular, he resembled that famous “copper-bottomed” squire. This we will leave to our reader’s discrimination. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He suffered somewhat of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore, occurs “to weavers and M. P.‘s, from sitting too long;” but again on his courser’s back, he cared not for anything.
Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don, skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried far more swiftly than its current to its confluence with the Aire.
Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn first began to break. Here and there a twitter was heard in the hedge; a hare ran across his path, gray-looking as the morning self; and the mists began to rise from the earth. A bar of gold was drawn against the east, like the roof of a gorgeous palace. But the mists were heavy in this world of rivers and their tributary streams. The Ouse was before him, the Trent and Aire behind; the Don and Derwent on either hand, all in their way to commingle their currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region so prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here and there the ground was clear; but then again came a volley of vapor, dim and palpable as smoke.
While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware of another horseman by his side. It was impossible to discern the features of the rider, but his figure in the mist seemed gigantic; neither was the color of his steed distinguishable. Nothing was visible except the meagre-looking, phantom-like outline of a horse and his rider, and, as the unknown rode upon the turf that edged the way, even the sound of the horse’s hoofs was scarcely audible. Turpin gazed, not without superstitious awe. Once or twice he essayed to address the strange horseman, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered in the mist-exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and fantastic resemblance to his friend Tom King. “It must be Tom,” thought Turpin; “he is come to warn me of my approaching end. I will speak to him.”
But terror o’ermastered his speech. He could not force out a word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking with fears he would scarcely acknowledge to himself, Dick watched every motion of his companion. He was still, stern, spectre-like, erect; and looked for all the world like a demon on his phantom steed. His courser seemed, in the indistinct outline, to be huge and bony, and, as he snorted furiously in the fog, Dick’s heated imagination supplied his breath with a due proportion of flame. Not a word was spoken — not a sound heard, save the sullen dead beat of his hoofs upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride thus cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. He put spurs to his horse, and endeavored to escape. But it might not be. The stranger, apparently without effort, was still by his side, and Bess’s feet, in her master’s apprehensions, were nailed to the ground. By-and-by, however, the atmosphere became clearer. Bright quivering beams burst through the vaporous shroud, and then it was that Dick discovered that the apparition of Tom King was no other than Luke Rookwood. He was mounted on his old horse, Rook, and looked grim and haggard as a ghost vanishing at the crowing of the cock.
“Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!” exclaimed Dick, in astonishment. “Why, I took you for ——”
“The devil, no doubt?” returned Luke, smiling sternly, “and were sorry to find yourself so hard pressed. Don’t disquiet yourself; I am still flesh and blood.”
“Had I taken you for one of mortal mould,” said Dick, “you should have soon seen where I’d have put you in the race. That confounded fog deceived me, and Bess acted the fool as well as myself. However, now I know you, Sir Luke, you must spur alongside, for the hawks are on the wing; and though I’ve much to say, I’ve not a second to lose.” And Dick briefly detailed the particulars of his ride, concluding with his rencontre with Barbara. “Here’s the packet,” said he, “just as I got it. You must keep it till the proper moment. And here,” added he, fumbling in his pocket for another paper, “is the marriage document. You are now your father’s lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it and welcome. If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray’s hand, you will not forget Dick Turpin.”
“I will not,” said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; “but she never may be mine.”
“You have her oath?”
“I have.”
“What more is needed?”
“Her hand.”
“That will follow.”
“It shall follow,” replied Sir Luke, wildly. “You are right. She is my affianced bride — affianced before hell, if not before heaven. I have sealed the contract with blood — with Sybil’s blood — and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath — her oath — ha, ha! Though I perish in the attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph’s grasp. She shall never be his. I would stab her first. Twice have I failed in my endeavors to bear her off. I am from Rookwood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the attack. Will you assist me?”
“To-morrow night!” interrupted Dick.
“Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned,” replied Luke.
“I will: she is at Rookwood?”
“She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have a spy within its walls — a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. From her I have learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the marriage is to take place privately to-morrow. This must be prevented.”
“It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall, and claim her?”
“Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my head. I
