whip-stock at that, smart; but it were only to prod a new hole in the broke stirrup-leather-his pluck was all gone." "Split my eyes an' limbs!" the Rommany spluttered at last. "Yer can fight, duveleste!" "A bit," Matt Scargil said. "Gives yer best at it, bor, an' I don't go to bear no malice for it, mind yer! " "Better not," the yeoman said. Why couldn't yer talk sensible like this, straight off?" "What is it yer wants to know, gentleman? It's a pleasure to tell anythin' to a chap what can fight like that," the gypsy fawned. "Now yer talkin'!" Matt said. What I wants to know is, what's the lay, and wheer's the tan, and is this here a straight game or a plant, that's what? You'd better ha' told me right off, ye gaumeril; you've got to tell me now." "Duveleste! That's the sort o' jib, bor-I likes to hear yer," the gypsy glozed, as he finished mending his stirrup-leather. He stretched himself painfully, groaned loud, and took a fresh nip of Hollands. "Yer fly, bor." He handed the flask. "Yer woundy fly; there 'ent many as can best the Flash Budger. I'll tell yer, bor, I'll tell yer," he went on hastily, as the yeoman showed signs of impatience. "This here's a straight lay an' no plant, and the tan's a snug tan to atch on, t'other side Stoniton." "Why couldn't yer say so afore, then?" "Krallis's orders, bor. 'Don't tell the rye everythin' all at once,' says the Krallis, 'or mebbe the rye won't come,' says he." "Will yer swear as my cousin's at the tan t'other side Stoniton ?" "Ay, sure I will; wish I may die!" "Will yer take yer oath as this is a straight game and no plant? Ay, sure I will, gentleman." "Yer'll take yer sacrament? "Take my Solomon-David." "Will yer swear yer big oath on it, bor?" The gypsy looked at the yeoman with a great show of wonder. “Woundy fly yer be, guv'nor-knows all about the big oath, do yer, duveleste!" "Swear it, then," the other growled. The gypsy wet his forefinger and drew the line. of a semicircle around his throat. Then he swore by his father's hand-" Apo mero dadescro vast," he swore; the holy oath of the Rommanies. " 'Reet!" said Matt Scargil, and the gypsy mounted. But still the yeoman hesitated; he stood patting the mare's flank absently, and looking along the road into the puzzling dark. The gypsy was waiting in the saddle. "Ain't yer goin' on?" he said. "Matter o' fourteen mile, that's all. What's fourteen mile to a prize mare? Never see a prettier tit, scrag me if I ever." But he got no answer. "Don't yer come, gentleman, if yer don't feel to want to, yer know." No answer; Matt Scargil was making up his mind, with a vain effort to fashion a new plan. "As well go for❜ard as back'ard now," thought he. . . . "A fooil I'm like to be, choose either. . . . I'm jealous she'll none come." "Dablo!" the gypsy swore. "On'y a matter o' fourteen mile, an' a fine ripe rawny at the end,” he said, with a thrust of his lip and a lickerish look in his eye. "But don't if yer don't want-I can see arter her myself." The yeoman answered at last. "Ride first, then," he growled. That speech and the leer on the fellow's face had decided him; Dahlia was in more danger than she knew. So forward they rode, and slowly now, for the moon was setting behind the serrate edge of Calver Cop, and the roadway could hardly be told from the low banks of peat skimmed from it on which the hedges had just begun to grow. For more than an hour they jogged along, the gypsy a couple of lengths in front, kept there for security by Matt's caution. Silence fell on them with the moonlessness; the softness of the road muffled the sound of the hoofs, the only noise was the creaking of saddle and stirrup leather, the jingle of bits, and the clink of the kettle now and again. Drowsiness rid the yeoman of thoughts for a time; secure in the regular, easy gait of the mare he nodded and dozed and all but slept, and might even have ridden snoring into Stoniton. But he was suddenly jerked awake by the shy of the mare at a yell. "Prastee! Ride, rot yer!" the Rommany was shrieking. "Prastee! Plastramengoes!" Matt opened his eyes on the daybreak; morn was at hand; long indeterminate cloudy lines of paleness were streaking the purple and slate of the sky. He roused himself with a shudder; that swift, sudden shout of fright in the chill of the last moment before dawn had set him shivering; his teeth chattered as he lifted his head to gaze along the frontward road. He could see for half a mile before and around him. Fifty yards away he could spy the gypsy scampering hot-foot and red-rowelled, the dust spattering up like smoke behind the gelding's hoofs; again and again the burly fugitive turned in his saddle, coweringly as though he feared a bullet,-to shout and wave the yeoman to flight. But Matt had checked his mare, and was sitting stock-still; the gypsy was not the only rider to be seen. Up to the Stoniton road, by a by-way lane that joined it a few rods ahead, a brace of horsemen were coming at a gallop; they were shouting and waving |