red
raced forward, with Samson close behind, and after a headlong gallop of
about ten minutes, the young leader had overtaken the hindmost horseman,
who was standing in his stirrups, his morion close down over his eyes,
his back up, and apparently blind to everything that was before him as
well as behind.

"Have him, Samson, lad," cried Fred, as he spurred on past this fugitive
to try and overtake the leader, a young-looking man in showy cavalier
hat and feathers, who kept on turning in his saddle and encouraging his
men to fresh exertions.

The next minute, as they thundered along, Samson rode straight at the
man with the morion over his eyes, but before he could reach him the
fugitive's horse made a poor attempt to clear a bush in his way,
stumbled, fell headlong, and shot his rider half a dozen yards in front.

"Prisoners; and don't hurt them," shouted Fred, waving his sword, and
his men gave an answering yell. So did the pursued, for no sooner did
the young leader discover that one of his men was down than he checked
his horse, held up his sword for the others to rally round him, and
turned at once on the party headed by Fred.

It was a gallant attempt, but useless. Their horses were spent, and as
they were checked before they could make any effective stand, Fred's
party literally sprung at them. There was a sharp shock; the exchange
of a few blows, and it was all over, the little party being literally
ridden down, their leader going over, horse and all, at Fred's charge.

The young Cavalier struggled free from his fallen horse, and tried to
drag a pistol from the holster at his saddle-bow, for his sword had
flown a dozen yards away among the bushes; but Fred had him by the neck
directly, his hand well inside the steel gorget he wore, and in one
breath he shouted, as he held his sword at his breast, "Surrender!" and
then, "Scar Markham! You!"

"Yes. Give up, my lads," cried the prisoner. "We've done all we could.
Let the crop-ears have a few prisoners for once in a way."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

TEASING A PRISONER.

Fred Forrester was too much astonished at the result of his pursuit to
make any sharp retort, but sat holding his prisoner by the gorget,
staring wildly at his old playmate, who seemed wonderfully changed since
their last meeting, and who had looked, in spite of dust and sweat, tall
and handsome in his gay frippery, scarf, scarlet feather, and long
curling hair.

"Well, rebel," cried the