"On, sir--on, Mr. Colleton--this is no moment for graceful attitude.
Bend forward--free rein--rashing spur. We ride for life--for life. They
must not take us alive--remember _that_. Let them shoot--strike, if they
please--but they must put no hands on us as living men. If we must die,
why--any death but a dog's. Are you prepared for such a finish to your
ride?"
"I am--but I trust it has not come to that. How much have we yet to the
river?"
"Two miles at the least, and a tough road. They gain upon us--do you not
hear them--we are slow--very slow. These horses--on, Syphax, dull
devil--on--on!"
And at every incoherent and unconnected syllable, the landlord struck
his spurs into his animal, and incited the youth to do the same.
"There is an old mill upon the branch to our left, where for a few hours
we might lie in secret, but daylight would find us out. Shall we try a
birth there, or push on for the river?" inquired Munro.
"Push on, by all means--let us stop nowhere--we shall be safe if we make
the nation," was the reply.
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