Gilbert Crosby may not
have been able to account for all of them, but they did not trouble him.
It was another sound he waited and listened for.
"There is nothing, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered.
"Wait."
Golding saw that a pistol was in his master's hand, so he took one
slowly from his pocket and tried to look into the darkness.
It was well that Gilbert Crosby saw the coach from such a distance, that
he could not catch a glimpse of the travellers. Had he known who the
travellers were, the spurs would have been driven deep into the mare's
flanks and there would have been no drawing rein; had he even recognised
the horseman who was being ill-treated he would not have paused to count
the cost. A trooper or two might have gone down before his fierce
attack, but a score of men, trained in fighting and on the alert, cannot
be scattered by one. Gilbert Crosby would have been flung lifeless on
the roadside, or overpowered and carried a prisoner to Dorchester.
The two women sat silently in the coach. Harriet Payne sobbed quietly.
She was tired of abusing Martin, weary of telling her mistress that they
ought to have kept to the high road and safety.
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