The rider had been in the saddle since early
morning, and although he had not loitered on his journey, his eyes and
ears had been keenly set all day, and, whenever practicable, he had
chosen by-paths in preference to the main road. His was a mission which
might bring him many dangers, and enemies even amongst those he sought
to befriend.
Before him lay the moorland, growing mistier and a little unreal in the
failing light. To his left, clustering roofs round a church tower, was a
village, so silent that none but the dead might have been its
inhabitants. Not a labourer plodded homewards from his toil in the
fields; not a horse, freed from its harness, grazed in the fields. To
his right, sharply cutting the distant sky-line, rose a tall spire, a
landmark for miles round.
"The end of our journey," he murmured, patting the horse's neck, "and
they won't thank us for coming."
The horse appeared to understand, and started forward again, shaking
himself as though to throw off his weariness. His rider had smiled a
little sadly as he spoke, but now his face was set again, as one who
rides upon an unpleasant mission but is not to be turned aside from
fulfilling it, no matter what the cost may be.
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