The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the tree
by the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmore
struggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well.
Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice he
shouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unless
a chance traveller came along the road he could not get released until
the day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all his
strength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will was
bent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him that
to-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwitted
him for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again,
and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lost
consciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit and
fierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to grow
stiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himself
into a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes,
but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall.
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