After their unsuccessful attempt to cross the ford, Charles Radclyffe and Captain Douglas did not return to the town, but concealed themselves among some trees till they had ascertained that the countess and Dorothy were to be liberated. They then went back tolerably well satisfied with the issue of the adventure.

As they were riding slowly up the lane leading to the Fishergate avenue, they caught the sound of horses' feet behind them, and stopped to listen.

It was so dark that nothing could be seen distinctly, but they heard voices, and Captain Douglas drew a pistol and called out, “Who goes there?”

“A friend,” replied a voice.

“To whom?” demanded Douglas. “To King James, or King George.”

“I am no rebel,” replied the person who had spoken. “But it seems you are, and I am therefore bound to make you a prisoner. It will be useless to resist, for I have a dozen men with me.”

“I would not yield if you had twice the number,” rejoined Douglas. “Advance a step further, and I will shoot you.”

“Let him go, Sir Henry,” cried a female voice.

“'Tis Sir Henry Hoghton,” said Charles Radclyffe.

“So it seems,” said Douglas. “Come, Sir Henry,” he cried. “'Tis for you to yield—not me.”

“This is my answer,” replied Sir Henry, firing at him, but without effect.

“And this my rejoinder,” cried Douglas, firing in his turn.

A shriek followed.

“What have I done?” cried Douglas.

“Wounded a lady,” replied Sir Henry. “Are you much hurt, madam?” he asked.

“Mortally, I fear,” she replied, in a faint voice. “Support me, or I shall fall from my horse.”

“'Tis Mrs. Scarisbrick!” cried Charles Radclyffe.

END OF BOOK EIGHT