The discovery was that the solitary horseman, walking his powerful grey
with a slack rein, and lost in thought, was Master Freake.
The sight was the rush of three men from their lurking-places in the
brushwood. Two of them were soldiers, and Brocton's dragoons at that, a
sample of the town-sweepings Jack had complained of. One seized the reins,
the other held a carbine point-blank at the horseman's head.
These were plainly deserters or freebooters, acting after their kind, and
they had picked up a strange partner during their foray. He wore a yokel's
smock much too big for him, and yet not big enough to hide his bespurred
riding-boots. On his head he had a dirty tapster's bonnet, and his face
was completely hidden by a rudely-cut crape vizard. This singular person
was evidently the leader of the gang. He threatened Master Freake with a
glittering, long-barrelled pistol, and in gruff, curt tones ordered him to
dismount on pain of instant death.
Here was a strange overturn to be sure. Here again fate had rudely upset
my plans, and no fat purse would there be for me in this coil. However,
though I would have robbed Master Freake willingly enough, my blood being
up and he a manifest Hanoverian, I was not going to see Brocton's ruffians
rob him, much less kill him.
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