om was already gone (his fellows said) without a word,
but towards the lodge that led to the Southampton road. Varney ordered
the swiftest horse the stables held to be saddled, and said, as he
sprang on his back,--

"I, too, must go towards Southampton. The poor young lady! I must
prepare your master,--he is on his road back to us;" and the last word
was scarce out of his lips as the sparks flew from the flints under the
horse's hoofs, and he spurred from the yard.

As he rode at full speed through the park, the villain's mind sped more
rapidly than the animal he bestrode,--sped from fear to hope, hope
to assurance. Grant that the spy lived to tell his tale,--incoherent,
improbable as the tale would be,--who would believe it? How easy to
meet tale by tale! The man must own that he was secreted behind the
tapestry,--wherefore but to rob? Detected by Madame Dalibard, he had
coined this wretched fable. And the spy, too, could not live through the
day; he bore Death with him as he rode, he fed its force by his speed,
and the effects of the venom itself would be those of frenzy. Tush! his
tale, at best, would seem but the ravings of delirium. Still, it was
well to track him where he went,--delay him, if possible; and Varney's
spurs plunged deep and deeper into the bleeding flanks: on desperately
scoured the horse. He passed the lodge; he was on the road; a chaise and
pair dashed by him; he heard not a voice exclaim "Varney!" he saw not
the wondering face of John Ardworth; bending over the tossing mane, he
was deaf, he was blind, to all without and around. A milestone glides
by, another, and a third. Ha! his eyes can see now. The object of his
chase is before him,--he views distinctly, on the brow of yon hill, the
horse and the rider, spurring fast, like himself. They descend the
hill, horse and horseman, and are snatched from his sight. Up the steep
strains the pursuer. He is at the summit. He sees the fugitive before
him, almost within hearing. Beck has slackened his steed; he seems
swaying to and fro in the saddle. Ho, ho! the barbed ring begins to work
in his veins. Varney looks round,--not another soul is in sight; a deep
wood skirts the road. Place and time seem to favour; Beck has reined in
his horse,--he bends low over the saddle, as if about to fall. Varney
utters a half-suppressed cry of triumph, shakes his reins, and spurs
on, when suddenly--by the curve of the road, hid before--another chaise
comes in sight, clos