Master Freake would be useless to me now, and my chiefest enemy had me at
his will.
There was no delay. A long cloak was put over me, so disposed as to hide
my fetters, and I was lifted on a spare horse led by one of the
new-comers. The skill with which the affair had been planned was shown by
the fact that this horse, to accommodate my shackled legs, had been
saddled as for a lady.
"You know exactly what to do?" asked his lordship of the men on the coach.
"Yes, my lord," said one of them, "but what about--" He finished the
sentence by a jerk of his thumb towards the dead sergeant.
"Leave him there! Egad, Master Wheatman, is not that a touch of the real
artist?"
"The key of these things is in his breeches' pocket," said I, speaking
for the first time, and waggling my fetters as I did so.
"Get it out, Tomlins!"
The man who had asked the question climbed down and obeyed the order with
the callousness of a dog nosing a dead rabbit. Then our parties separated.
The coach continued along the main road, if so it may be called, and we
took to the track. I looked curiously after the coach, wondering where it
was bound, and with what object.
Pages:
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525