Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.

 

Schw.

Down with him. Don't let him utter a word.

 

Moor.

Silence, I will hear him.

 

----SCHILLER: The Robbers.

 

Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than Turpin.

 

"'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" murmured he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much as to say, "That day will never arrive." Turpin, at least, understood the appeal in that sense; he was skilled in the language of the Houyhnhnms. "I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen," sighed he; "but there's no saying: the best of friends must part; and thou and I may be one day separated: thy destination is the knacker--mine, perhaps, the gibbet.--We are neither of us cut out for old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is; since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into my head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil; but may I be scragged if I'd use thee as her lover has used her. Ha!" exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made his companions, Rust and Wilder, start, "we are watched. See you not how yon shadow falls from behind the wall?"

 

"I do," replied Rust.

 

"The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, rushing to the spot.

 

In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was brought before our highwayman, who had, meanwhile, vaulted into his saddle.

 

"Mr. Coates!" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view, "or the mud deceives me."

 

"It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the attorney; "you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person."

 

"What brings you here?" asked Dick. "Ah! I see, you are come to pay me my wager."

 

"I thought you gave me a discharge for that," rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.

 

"True, but it was in blank," replied Turpin readily; "and that don't hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a second chance. Play or pay, all the world over. I shan't let you off so easily this time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, sir, down with the dust. Fake his clies, pals. Let us see what he has about him."

 

"In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Rust. "We'll turn him inside out. What's here?" cried he, searching the attorney's pockets. "A brace of barkers," handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, "a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I'm thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d--d dicky concern, captain."

 

"Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the knave says true enough."

 

"Is there nothing else?" demanded Dick.

 

"Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer."

 

"No reader?[90] Try his hoxter."[91]

 

"Here's a pit-man,[92] captain."

 

 

[Footnote 90: Pocket-book.]

 

[Footnote 91: Inside coat-pocket.]

 

[Footnote 92: A small pocket-book.]

 

 

 

"Give it me. Ah! this will do," cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. "This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for 500l., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here's pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill, I'll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good!" added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. "Good! good! I'll be off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess--ha, ha! Eh! what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "My Lady Rookwood's superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a pee............