A thin moon hung in the twilight sky. It was just that
hour before dark when the landscape looks flat to the eye, and forms
at a little distance grow confused in outline. Yet they could see
the horseman plainly enough to recognise him. It was Captain Salt
who flew past, well out of pistol-shot, and headed southwards at a
stretch-gallop, his hands down and his shoulders bent as he rode.
"Devil seize him if he hasn't got my mare!" roared the man Dick,
forgetting his cough and leaping to his feet. "I can tell the sorrel
a mile away!"
Then followed a dismayed silence as they watched the escaping rider.
"She's the best nag of the four, too," one of the men muttered
gloomily.
"Boys," said the fellow who had first arrested Tristram, "he's done
us for a certainty. In an hour or two he'll reach the French
outposts. We must go back and patch up the best story we can find.
Young man," he added, turning sharply, "I'd like to be certain you're
as big a fool as you make out. Where d'ye come from, and where are
ye bound for?"
Tristram told his story ingenuously enough.
"We'll have to search you."
They searched him and found a sealed packet.
"What is this?"
"Pepper-cress seed."
"Pepper-cress be damned!" was the only comment.
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