Horse
and rider might have been of one piece; every movement of man and animal
was perfect, and the man wore the dreaded brown mask.
"No, I have not seen a coach." And the father, remembering vaguely that
this notorious highwayman was said to have helped many to escape from
the West, burst out in pleading. "Oh, sir, have mercy. My son lies a
prisoner in Dorchester, and the money I have may be his salvation."
"Pass on, friend. Good luck go with you." And with a clatter of hoofs the
brown mask rode on.
Galloping Hermit was on the road to-night, but a score of travellers,
carrying all the wealth they possessed, might have passed him in safety.
He was out to stop one coach wherein sat a villain, and a fair woman
whom he loved. Surely she must be shrinking back in her corner, so that
even the hem of her gown might not be soiled by the touch of the man
beside her.
Lord Rosmore had not attempted to justify himself as the coach started
upon its journey; he had only told her that escape was impossible, that
the post-boy was in his pay and had his instructions. Barbara had called
him a villain through her closed teeth, and then had shrunk into her
corner, drawing the hood of the cloak closely over her head.
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