But on galloped the great, black horse, by pointed oast-house, by
gloomy church, on and ever on, his nostrils flaring, his eye wild,
his laboring sides splashed with mire and streaked with foam and
blood; on he galloped, faltering a little, stumbling a little, his
breath coming in sobbing gasps, but maintaining still his long,
racing stride; thundering through sleeping hamlets and waking echoes
far and near, failing of strength, scant of breath, but indomitable
still.
Oh, mighty "Four-legs"! Oh, "Terror"! whose proud heart scorns defeat!
to-night thou dost race as ne'er thou didst before, pitting thy
strength and high courage against old Time himself! Therefore on, on,
brave horse, enduring thy anguish as best thou may, nor look for
mercy from the pitiless human who bestrides thee, who rides
grim-lipped, to give death and, if need be, to taste of its
bitterness himself, and who, unsparing of himself, shall neither
spare thee.
On, on, brave horse, endure as best thou may, since Death rides thee
to-night.
Now, in a while, Barnabas saw before him a wide street flanked on
either hand by cottages, and with an ancient church beyond. And, as
he looked at this church with its great, square tower outlined
against the starry heaven, there came, borne to his ears, the
fretful wailing of a sleepless child; therefore he checked his going
and, glancing about, espied a solitary lighted window. Riding thither,
he raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, tapped upon the
panes; and, in a while, the casement was opened and a man peered
forth, a drowsy being, touzled of head and round of eye.
"Pray," said Barnabas, "what village is this?"
"Why, sir," answered the man, "five an' forty year I've lived here,
and always heard as it was called Headcorn."
"Headcorn," said Barnabas, nodding, "then Ashleydown should be near
here?"
"Why, sir," said the man, nodding in turn, "I do believe
you--leastways it were here about yesterday."
"And where is it?"
"Half a mile back down the road, you must ha' passed it, sir. A
great house it be though inclined to ruination. And it lays back
from the road wi' a pair o' gates--iron gates as is also ruinated,
atween two stone pillars wi' a lion a-top of each, leastways if it
ain't a lion it's a griffin, which is a fab'lous beast. And talking
of beasts, sir, I do believe as that theer dratted child don't never
mean to sleep no more. Good night to ye, sir--and may you sleep
better a-nights than a married man wi' seven on 'em." Saying which,
he nodded, sighed, and vanished.
So back rode Barnabas the way he had come, and presently, sure enough,
espied the dim outlines of the two stone columns each with "a lion
a-top," and between these columns swung a pair of rusted iron gates;
and the gates were open, seeing which Barnabas frowned and set his
teeth, and so turned to ride between the gates, but, even as he did
so, he caught the sound of wheels far down the road. Glancing
thither he made out the twinkling lights of an approaching chaise,
and sat awhile to watch its slow progress, then, acting upon sudden
impulse, he spurred to meet it. Being come within hail he reined in
across the road, and drawing a pistol levelled it at the startled
post-boy.