Mary was looking round now, and slightly checking her horse as they
neared the bottom of the long village street. In half a dozen strides
Anthony came up on her right. Then the pool gleamed before them just
beyond the fork of the road.
"Left!" screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, and turned her
horse off up the road that led round in a wide sweep of two miles to East
Maskells and the woods beyond, and Anthony followed. He had settled down
in the saddle now, and had brought his maddened horse under control; his
feet were in the stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. They
had left the last house now, and on either side the black bushes and
heatherland streamed past, with the sudden gleam of water here and there
under the starlight that showed the ditches and holes with which the
ground on either side of the road was honeycombed.
Then Mary turned her head again, and the words came detached and sharp.
"They are after us--could not help--horses saddled."
Anthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of the air, and
heard the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, but even as he
listened it grew fainter.
"We are gaining!" he shouted.
Mary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile.
"Ours are fresh," she screamed.
Then there was silence between them again; they had reached a little hill
and eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees crowned it on their
right, black against the stars, and a gleam of light showed the presence
of a house among them.
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