Why,
who are you? Down with you, then!"
Lord Robert Chancton, a lad of about sixteen, the eldest son of
the Marquis, had lost his way inside the house, in trying to find a
short-cut to the door, and coming up after the pistol was fired, made a
very gallant rush at the enemy. With a blow of the butt Carne sent him
sprawling; then dashing among the shrubs and trees, in another minute
was in the saddle, and galloping towards the ancestral ruins.
As he struck into the main road through the grounds, Carne passed and
just missed by a turn of the bridle another horseman ascending the hill,
and urging a weary animal. The faces of the men shot past each other
within a short yard, and gaze met gaze; but neither in the dark flash
knew the other, for a big tree barred the moonlight. But Carne, in
another moment, thought that the man who had passed must be Scudamore,
probably fraught with hot tidings. And the thought was confirmed, as
he met two troopers riding as hard as ride they might; and then saw the
beacon on the headland flare. From point to point, and from height to
height, like a sprinkle of blood, the red lights ran; and the roar of
guns from the moon-lit sea made echo that they were ready. Then the
rub-a-dub-dub of the drum arose, and the thrilling blare of trumpet;
the great deep of the night was heaved and broken with the stir of human
storm; and the staunchest and strongest piece of earth--our England--was
ready to defend herself.
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