ed into the saddle and was away to Bath after Forister. As I
galloped out of the inn yard I heard a tumult behind me, and, looking
back, I saw three hostlers lifting hard at Paddy to raise him into the
saddle. He gave a despairing cry when he perceived me leaving him at
such speed, but my heart was hardened to my work. I must catch
Forister.

It was a dark and angry morning. The rain swept across my face, and
the wind flourished my cloak. The road, glistening steel and brown,
was no better than an Irish bog for hard riding. Once I passed a
chaise with a flogging post-boy and steaming nags. Once I overtook a
farmer jogging somewhere on a fat mare. Otherwise I saw no travellers.

I was near my journey's end when I came to a portion of the road which
dipped down a steep hill. At the foot of this hill was an oak-tree,
and under this tree was a man masked and mounted, and in his hand was
a levelled pistol.

"Stand!" he said. "Stand!"

I knew his meaning, but when a man has lost a documentary fortune and
given an innkeeper all but his last guinea, he is sure to be filled
with fury at the appearance of a third and completing misfortune. With
a loud shout I drew my pistol and rode like a demon at the highwayman.
He fired, but his bullet struck nothing but the flying tails of my
cloak. As my horse crashed into him I struck at his pate with my
pistol. An instant later we both came a mighty downfall, and when I
could get my eyes free of stars I arose and drew my sword. The
highwayman sat before me on the ground, ruefully handling his skull.
Our two horses were scampering away into the mist.

I placed my point at the highwayman's throat.

"So, my fine fellow," cried I grandly, "you rob well. You are the
principal knight of the road of all England, I would dare say, by the
way in which an empty pistol overcomes you."

He was still ruefully handling his skull.

"Aye," he muttered sadly, more to himself than to me, "a true knight
of the road with seven ballads written of me in Bristol and three in
Bath. Ill betide me for not minding my mother's word and staying at
home this day. 'Tis all the unhappy luck of Jem Bottles. I should have
remained an honest sheep-stealer and never engaged in this dangerous
and nefarious game of lifting purses."

The man's genuine sorrow touched me. "Cheer up, Jem Bottles," said I.
"All may yet be well. 'Tis not one little bang on the crown that so
disturbs you?"

"'Tis not one--no," he answere