slimy water at the bottom.

Down this same hill, some twenty minutes later, came Kenneth Stewart
with infinite precaution. He was in haste--a haste more desperate
far than even Crispin's. But his character held none of Galliard's
recklessness, nor were his wits fogged by such news as Crispin had heard
that night. He realized that to be swift he must be cautious in his
night-riding. And so, carefully he came, with a firm hand on the reins,
yet leaving it to his horse to find safe footing.

He had reached the level ground in safety, and was about to put his nag
to a smarter pace, when of a sudden from the darkness of the hedge he
was hailed by a harsh, metallic voice, the sound of which sent a tremor
through him.

"Sir, you are choicely met, whoever you may be. I have suffered a
mischance down that cursed hill, and my horse has gone lame."

Kenneth kept his cloak over his mouth, trusting that the muffling would
sufficiently disguise his accents as he made answer.

"I am in haste, my master. What is your will?"

"Why, marry, so am I in haste. My will is your horse, sir. Oh, I'm no
robber. I'll pay you for it, and handsomely. But have it I must. 'Twill
be no great discomfort for you to walk to Norwich. You may do it in an
hour."

"My horse, sir, is not for sale," was Kenneth's brief answer. "Give you
good night."

"Hold, man! Blood and hell, stop! If you'll not sell the worthless beast
to serve a gentleman, I'll shoot it under you. Make your choice."

Kenneth caught the gleam of a pistol-barrel pointed at him from the
hedge, and he shivered. What was he to do? Every instant was precious to
him. As in a flash it came to him that perchance Sir Crispin also rode
to London, and that it was expected of him to arrive there first if he
were to be in time. Swiftly he weighed the odds in his mind, and took
the determination to dash past Sir Crispin, risking his aim and trusting
to the dark to befriend him.

But even as he determined thus, what moon there was became unveiled, and
the light of it fell upon his face, which was turned towards Galliard.
An exclamation of surprise escaped Sir Crispin.

"'Slife, Master Stewart, I knew not your voice. Whither do you ride?"

"What is it to you? Have you not wrought enough of evil for me? Am I
never to be rid of you? Castle Marleigh," he added, with well-feigned
anger, "has closed its doors upon me. What does it signify to you
whither I ride? Suffer me leastways to pass unmoles