"Thought so. You're going to Mr. Walter Moncrief, his brother--eh?"

Paul remained silent. He felt that he had said too much already.

"Tongue-tied--eh? Well, I won't trouble you to answer, for I know well enough my information's right. All you need do is just to hand over to me the packet you're taking to Mr. Walter Moncrief. I'll take care of it."

The stranger's information was only too accurate; Paul marvelled at its accuracy; but nevertheless Mr. Moncrief's words, "I feel that I can trust you. You will not part with the letter, whatever happens," came to him, and he determined not to give up the packet without a struggle.

"You're not deaf as well as tongue-tied--eh? Quick! quick! hand over the packet," came the imperious voice of the stranger.

Paul saw that he was in a desperate situation--one from which it would only be possible to extricate himself by strategy. He put his hand to the inner pocket where the packet lay, and drew it a little way from his pocket. This movement disarmed the man who held the bridle. He slackened his hold. As he did so Paul brought down his riding-whip--or, rather, Mr. Moncrief's riding-whip--sharply on the other man's face.

With a cry of mingled rage and pain the man dropped the bridle.

"Good Falcon--good. Now!" cried Paul, urging the horse forward.

The second man made a lunge at the horse. Falcon, as though fully alive to the need of getting away, bounded forward like a dart along the road.

It went forward at a breakneck speed, quivering in every limb, as though feverishly anxious to place as great a distance as possible between Paul and his pursuers.

"Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d!" Paul murmured, overjoyed at their escape. "What a n.o.ble horse it is. That man is a foreigner, I'm sure of it--one who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. Who is he, I wonder?"

If Paul had only known! But all was dark to him, as dark as the road along which he was speeding. Only one thing was clear--that these men were the enemies of Mr. Moncrief; that they were anxious to get from him the packet of which he was the bearer. More and more Paul wondered what could be the meaning of it all--what could be the meaning of the curious hieroglyphics in his pocket.

But suddenly, just as he was congratulating himself on the distance he had placed between himself and his pursuers, Falcon slackened speed, and began to breathe hard. What was the meaning of it? Had an accident befallen him, or had he grown weary? Paul knew enough of the animal to know that it would not readily slacken speed through weariness. Falcon was one of those sterling animals who would take every inch from himself before he would give in through weariness.

If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might be possible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once more he encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperate effort to obey him.

Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from the stirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside.

Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself as he bent over the horse.

"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long would elapse before his pursuers reached him.

"What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon--good!"

Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts to rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the uncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg?

All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at the horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some way.

CHAPTER III

THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST

Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.

"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty, least of all to one of G.o.d's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were choking.

"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"

There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still, and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to Paul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb; then the n.o.ble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead.

Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by the death-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence of death, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voices roused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, in his grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was being pursued--forgotten the message of which he was the bearer.

The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, his pursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter with which he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good by remaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By G.o.d's good help, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers.

So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards.

"It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. But he soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury to his leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he could walk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuers were gaining ground.

Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach it without being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him?

Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in the village church--"The wicked oppress me--compa.s.s me about. They now compa.s.s me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to his lips:

"Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thy marvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them which put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compa.s.s me about. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down."

With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before he was compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless for him to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. He looked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him, to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had been burned almost to the ground, and never been re-built.

As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins.

But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been the garden of the house, when a voice cried:

"Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Paul was somewhat startled, for he thought the place deserted. He found himself mistaken, however, for a boy came from the ruins and faced him.

He was slightly taller than Paul, and of slimmer build; but he was none the less well proportioned, and his limbs moved with the easy movement of a young athlete. In spite of the dusk, Paul recognized him. He was one of the senior boys of St. Bede's--the scholars of which were the deadly rivals of Paul's school. There had been a perpetual feud between St. Bede's and Garside for many years. Sometimes it would be patched up for a week or two; then it would break out with greater violence than ever. Just before the vacation, the feud had burst out stronger than ever. There is no telling to what length it might have been carried, but, fortunately, the vacation came on, and hostilities were suspended.

The boy before him was Wyndham, one of the ringleaders on the other side. The recognition was simultaneous.

"You're one of the bounders of Garside, aren't you?"

"Yes," Paul candidly admitted; "and you--you're one of the Bede's, aren't you? I haven't time to talk. There's some one after me. Can you put me up to a place to hide in?--quick, there's a good fellow!"

"Running away--eh?" said the other contemptuously, without moving.

"That's like you Garside fellows!"

"I wish I had only the time to teach you better," retorted Paul indignantly. Then, remembering all that was at stake, he suppressed his indignation, and in quick, earnest tones: "I'm not sneaking--on my word of honour. I'm the bearer of an important paper, belonging to a chum's father. Two men are following me up to try to get it from me. If I can't steer clear of them they will take it from me. You know this place. Hide me somewhere!"

The earnest tones of Paul appealed to Wyndham.

"I don't know of any hiding-place, except----"

"Except what?" cried Paul eagerly, as he again caught the sound of voices from the roadway.

"The old well."

"The old well! How is it possible to hide there?"

"Well, I can let you down in the bucket, if you care to run the risk.

I've been down it myself--but I'm not a Garside fellow."