At a gallop they breasted
the climb out, but the clatter of hoofs quickly grew uneven as the
weight told. The post-boy was using the whip vigorously as they drew to
the top, and then the coach suddenly came to a standstill. The window
rattled down, and a head was thrust out.
"Move, and you're a dead man!"
The coach had drawn out of the shadows into the moonlight, and Lord
Rosmore started back, so close was the pistol to his head. He looked
along it, and along the man's extended arm, and into his face, and a
half-smothered cry broke from his lips. He had been caught unawares.
Physically he was no coward, but the sight of the brown mask seemed to
paralyse him.
"You!"
"Open the door and get out. Quickly, or, by heaven, you shall fall out
with a bullet through your brain."
From this man Lord Rosmore knew he could expect no mercy, knew that he
was likely to be as good as his word, and he got out.
"Down with you," said the highwayman to the post-boy. "Take this rope,
and see that you fasten this gentleman securely to that tree yonder. One
loose knot that may give him a chance of escape, and I'll see to it that
you never throw your leg across the back of a horse again.
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