air was cleft with his shouts.
Bess was not insensible to her master’s exultation. She neighed feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous sight to see her — to mark her staring, protruding eyeball — her shaking flanks; but, while life and limb held together, she held on.
Another mile is past. York is near.
“Hurrah!” shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess tottered — fell. There was a dreadful gasp — a parting moan — a snort; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, with a dying glare; then grew glassy, rayless, fixed. A shiver ran through her frame. Her heart had burst.
Dick’s eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though achieved, was forgotten — his own safety was disregarded. He stood weeping and swearing, like one beside himself.
Death of Black Bess
“And art thou gone, Bess?” cried he, in a voice of agony, lifting up his courser’s head, and kissing her lips, covered with blood-flecked foam. “Gone, gone! and I have killed the best steed that was ever crossed! And for what?” added Dick, beating his brow with his clenched hand —“for what? for what?”
At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out the hour of six.
“I am answered,” gasped Dick; “it was to hear those strokes.”
Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought his pistols: but he was spared the necessity of using them, by discovering in the intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar. The patrico was habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his shoulders.
“So it’s all over with the best mare in England, I see,” said Balthazar; “I can guess how it has happened — you are pursued?”
“I am,” said Dick, roughly.
“Your pursuers are at hand?”
“Within a few hundred yards.”
“Then, why stay here? Fly while you can.”
“Never — never,” cried Turpin; “I’ll fight it out here by Bess’s side. Poor lass! I’ve killed her — but she has done it — ha, ha! — we have won — what?” And his utterance was again choked.
“Hark! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts,” cried the patrico. “Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress within it. Dart into that thick copse — save yourself.”
“But Bess — I cannot leave her,” exclaimed Dick, with an agonizing look at his horse.
“And what did Bess die for, but to save you?” rejoined the patrico.
“True, true,” said Dick; “but take care of her, don’t let those dogs of hell meddle with her carcase.”
“Away,” cried the patrico, “leave Bess to me.”
Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the adjoining copse.
He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray rode up.
“Who is this?” exclaimed the Major, flinging himself from his horse, and seizing the patrico; “this is not Turpin.”
“Certainly not,” replied Balthazar, coolly. “I am not exactly the figure for a highwayman.”
“Where is he? What has become of him?” asked Coates, in despair, as he and Paterson joined the major.
“Escaped, I fear,” replied the major. “Have you seen any one, fellow?” added he, addressing the patrico.
“I have seen no one,” replied Balthazar. “I am only this instant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my attention.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, “this may be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil himself, and may have carried that goat’s hair in his pocket.” Saying which, he seized the patrico by the beard, and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul handled the hirsute chin of the Roman senator.
“The devil! hands off,” roared Balthazar. “By Salamon, I won’t stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the growth of a few minutes? Hands off! I say.”
“Regularly done!” said Paterson, removing his hold of the patrico’s chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.
“Ay,” exclaimed Coates; “all owing to this worthless piece of carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those walls”— pointing towards the Castle —“I should wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs with her.” And he was about to spurn the breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the patrico’s staff, felled him to the ground.
“I’ll teach you to molest me,” said Balthazar, about to attack Paterson.
“Come, come,” said the discomfited chief constable, “no more of this. It’s plain we’re in the wrong box. Every bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let’s be moving. We’ve had an infernal long ride for nothing.”
“Not so,” replied Coates; “I’ve paid pretty dearly for it. However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling-green, yonder; though I’ve already had my morning draught,” added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel.
“Poor Black Bess!” said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. “Thou deservedst a better fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the coloring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare!”
To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with all possible expedition.
A countryman, in a smock-frock, was busily engaged at his morning’s meal.
“To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had fasted for a month,” said Coates; “see the wholesome effects of an honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite — I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place.”
The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.
“An ugly dog!” exclaimed Paterson: “what a devil of a twist he has got!”
“What’s that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?” asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.
“Have you seen aught of him?” asked Coates.
“Not I,” mumbled the rustic; “but I hears aw the folks hereabouts
