The Amateur Gentleman

But on galloped the great, black horse, by pointed oast-house, by

gloomy church, on and ever on, his nostrils flaring, his eye wild,

his laboring sides splashed with mire and streaked with foam and

blood; on he galloped, faltering a little, stumbling a little, his

breath coming in sobbing gasps, but maintaining still his long,

racing stride; thundering through sleeping hamlets and waking echoes

far and near, failing of strength, scant of breath, but indomitable

still.

Oh, mighty "Four-legs"! Oh, "Terror"! whose proud heart scorns defeat!

to-night thou dost race as ne'er thou didst before, pitting thy

strength and high courage against old Time himself! Therefore on, on,

brave horse, enduring thy anguish as best thou may, nor look for

mercy from the pitiless human who bestrides thee, who rides

grim-lipped, to give death and, if need be, to taste of its

bitterness himself, and who, unsparing of himself, shall neither

spare thee.

On, on, brave horse, endure as best thou may, since Death rides thee

to-night.

Now, in a while, Barnabas saw before him a wide street flanked on

either hand by cottages, and with an ancient church beyond. And, as

he looked at this church with its great, square tower outlined

against the starry heaven, there came, borne to his ears, the

fretful wailing of a sleepless child; therefore he checked his going

and, glancing about, espied a solitary lighted window. Riding thither,

he raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, tapped upon the

panes; and, in a while, the casement was opened and a man peered

forth, a drowsy being, touzled of head and round of eye.

"Pray," said Barnabas, "what village is this?"

"Why, sir," answered the man, "five an' forty year I've lived here,

and always heard as it was called Headcorn."

"Headcorn," said Barnabas, nodding, "then Ashleydown should be near

here?"

"Why, sir," said the man, nodding in turn, "I do believe

you--leastways it were here about yesterday."

"And where is it?"

"Half a mile back down the road, you must ha' passed it, sir. A

great house it be though inclined to ruination. And it lays back

from the road wi' a pair o' gates--iron gates as is also ruinated,

atween two stone pillars wi' a lion a-top of each, leastways if it

ain't a lion it's a griffin, which is a fab'lous beast. And talking

of beasts, sir, I do believe as that theer dratted child don't never

mean to sleep no more. Good night to ye, sir--and may you sleep

better a-nights than a married man wi' seven on 'em." Saying which,

he nodded, sighed, and vanished.

So back rode Barnabas the way he had come, and presently, sure enough,

espied the dim outlines of the two stone columns each with "a lion

a-top," and between these columns swung a pair of rusted iron gates;

and the gates were open, seeing which Barnabas frowned and set his

teeth, and so turned to ride between the gates, but, even as he did

so, he caught the sound of wheels far down the road. Glancing

thither he made out the twinkling lights of an approaching chaise,

and sat awhile to watch its slow progress, then, acting upon sudden

impulse, he spurred to meet it. Being come within hail he reined in

across the road, and drawing a pistol levelled it at the startled

post-boy.