The hour was past midnight and before dawn when the great coach of Squire Crymes approached the long hill of Black Down. The road from Plymouth to Exeter was one of singular loneliness for a considerable part of its course, but in no part did it traverse country so desolate and apart from population as in the stretch, a posting stage between Tavistock and Okehampton, a distance of sixteen miles. It ran high up on the flanks of Dartmoor, mounting it nearly nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, with the trackless waste of the forest on one hand, and on the other a descent by ragged and rugged lanes to distant villages. Lydford, almost the sole one at all near the road, was severed from it by ravines sawn through the rock, through which the moor rivers thundered and boiled, ever engaged in tearing for themselves a deeper course.

Precisely because this track of road was the most inhospitable and removed from human haunts, was it one of the safest to travel even in the most troublous times, for no one dreamed of traversing it after nightfall, when aware that for sixteen miles he would be cut off from help in the event of a breakage of his carriage or the laming of a horse; and as no one ever thought of taking this road except in broad day, when it was fairly occupied by trains of travellers, no footpads and highwaymen thought it worth their while to try their fortunes upon it.

Roads in former days to a large extent made themselves, or were made by the travellers. In the first place the bottoms of valleys were deserted by them as much as might be, because of the bogs that were there, and the lines of communication were laid on the ridges of hills above the springs that undermined and made spongy the soil. Then the roads were traced before the enclosures were made, and originally were carried as directly as possible from point to point. But obstacles, sometimes temporary, intervened: perhaps a slough, perhaps a rut of extraordinary depth had torn into the road, and became the nucleus of a pool; perhaps an unduly hard and obstinate prong of rock appeared after the upper surface had been worn through. Then the stream of travellers swayed to one side, and gave the course of the road a curve, which curve was followed when hedges were run up. These hedges following the curves stereotyped the line of road, which thenceforth became permanently irregular in course.

A roadway in those days was about as easy to go over, and to go over with expedition, as the beach of Brighton. Consequently it was slow work journeying on such highways on horseback; and it was journeying like a snail, when travelling in a coach. The outrunner had no very arduous task to outstrip the horses. He put his foot on the turf by the road-side, and tripped along at his ease, leaping the puddles and stones which were occasional by the road-side; whereas they were continuous in the roadway.

Fox rode sulkily beside the coach, as it rolled and rocked along the highway from Tavistock to the North. The night was overcast, after midnight, as it had been before the turn of the night; no wind was blowing, nor did rain fall, but the aspect was utterly sombre and uncheering. Every light was out in such houses as were passed, and not a passenger was met, or overtook the carriage that lumbered along, sending squirts of muddy water to this and that side as the wheels plunged into ruts. Fox came occasionally to the coach window, and said something to his father, and was bespattered from head to foot, boots, clothes, and face.

Presently the point was attained where the road left the valley of the brawling Tavy and climbed Black Down. There was a directness in the way in which old roads went at hills that was in keeping with the characters of our forefathers. A height had to be surmounted, and the road was carried up it with a rush, and with none of our modern zig-zags and easy sweeps. The hill must be ascended, and the sooner it was surmounted the better. Now, the great road to the North from Plymouth by Tavistock had the huge hogsback of Black Down to surmount, and it made no hesitating and leisurely attempts at it; it went up four hundred feet as direct as a bow-line.

On reaching the foot of the Down, the driver paused and the footman on the box dismounted. The men with the spare horses went ahead and hitched on their beasts. Then ensued loud cries and shouts, and the cracking of whips, each man attending to a horse, and encouraging it to do its uttermost to haul the great coach up the hill. The only men who kept their places were the driver on the box, and Mr. Crymes within.

Now, a good many other coaches had halted at the same spot, and halting there had ground away the soil, so as to make a very loose piece of road; moreover, the water falling on the road had run down it to the lowest level, and finding this rotten portion there had accumulated and done its utmost to assist the disintegration. The result was that the wheels sank in liquid mire to the axles, and six horses did little more than churn the filth and jerk the coach about.

Mr. Crymes having been subjected to several violent relapses as the coach was half pulled out of the pit and then sank back again, thrust his head out of the window and called:—"Wilkey! will it not be best to have all the horses harnessed? There is rope in the box."

"Well, perhaps it were best, your worship."

Thereupon much discussion ensued, and much time was spent in attaching ropes; and finally, with great hooting, and with imprecations as well, and some words of encouragement, the whole team was set in motion, and the coach was hauled out of the slough, and began slowly to snail the way up the two-mile ascent.

Again Mr. Crymes thrust forth his head.

"Wilkey! Perhaps if Mr. Anthony were to ride forward, it might be an encouragement to the horses to go along with more spirit."

"Your worship, I do not see Mr. Fox! I beg pardon, Mr. Anthony. I think he has returned."

"What! without a farewell? The boy is unmannerly, and inconsiderate of what is due to a father. But such is the decay of the world, alas! Go on, Wilkey! there was no necessity for all the men and horses to halt to hear what I had to say to thee."

Again there ensued a cracking of whips, objurgations, and cheers, a great straining at ropes, and a forward movement of the coach.

The vehicle proceeded some way with more ease, for the stream of water that had here flowed over the road had smoothed it, and cleared it of obstructions.

Presently the men and horses came to a dead halt, and there ensued ahead much conversation, some expostulation, and commotion.

Again Mr. Crymes' head was thrust out of the window, and he called, "Wilkey! I say; come here, Wilkey! What is the matter? Why dost thou not go on? Has any rope broken?"

But several minutes elapsed before Wilkey responded to his master's call, and when finally, in answer to further and more urgent shouts, he did come, it was not alone, but attended by several of the other men, dragging with them by the arms a man whom they had found in the road.

"What is it? Who is he? What does he here?"

"Oh, I will be good! I promise—I swear, I will be good! I'll say my prayers! I'll not get drunk any more! I do not want to go inside—I'd rather walk a hundred miles and run by night and day, than have this carriage stop for me, and hear——"

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" asked Mr. Crymes. "Some of you bring the lantern. Let me look at him. Is he a footpad?"

"No—never—never robbed any one in my life. I pray you do not ask me to step in. I thank thee, I had rather walk than gather to thy side. I really will be good. 'Pon my soul I will. Drive on, coachee!"

"Why—'fore Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Crymes, "this is Mr. Solomon Gibbs—and, the worse for liquor. Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Gibbs!"

"Eh!" said the gentleman, coming to the coach door, "why, by cock! it isn't my Ladye at all! By my soul, you must excuse me, Master Crymes. I was in that state of fright! At this time of night, and on Black Down! I thought it could be no other than the Death Coach, and that my Ladye wi' the ashen face was inside, and would make me ride by her."

Then half-humorously, but half-scared still, and not wholly sober, Mr. Solomon Gibbs trolled forth in broken tones,

"Why, how came you here?" asked Mr. Crymes. "My men took you for a highwayman, and might have fired their holsters or carbines at you."

"And I might ask, how came you here at night, in your coach! By cock! You do not know the scare you gave me, at the very midnight—too—and I on the very road that my Ladye goes over in her Death Coach! But—I thought it stopped for me, and that upset my mind altogether. When I saw something—black horses, and a coach coming along, I tried to skip out of the way and hide somewhere, but, not a hiding-place could I find on the moor. I did suppose at first that it was on its way for my poor niece—for Urith, but when it stopped—when it stopped—" he shivered. "I felt my heart go into my boots. And I have been looking for him everywhere, in every ale-house, and not so much as a thread of his coat, nor the breath of a word as to his whereabouts, and she—so ill—dying. I should not be surprised, dead. By cock! when I saw the coach come along, and at or about midnight, I made sure my Ladye was on her way to Willsworthy, to fetch Urith; but when the coach stopped—when it stopped—" again he shuddered.

"Whom are you seeking?" asked Mr. Crymes.

"Anthony, to be sure, my nephew-in-law. But I say, Justice, thou art a religious man and a bit of a Puritan; now solve me this. When I thought this was my Lady's coach, and that she was about to put out her bony hand, and to wave me to come in, then I swore and protested I'd not touch another drop of drink and be good as any red-letter day saint. Now, as the carriage is not hers, but yours, and instead of the Lady wi' the Ashen Face it is the Right Worshipful Justice Crymes, what say you? Does it hold? Mind you, the oath was taken under misapprehension. Does it hold?"

"What is that you say, Master Gibbs, about your niece? Is she really so ill?"

"Ill! So ill that I made sure the coach was on its way for her. I've been running about the world all night like the Wandering Jew, to first one ale-house and then another, after Anthony. Confound the fellow! what does he mean, running away, hiding where none can find him, when Urith is so ill?"

"What ails her?" asked Mr. Crymes. "Step in by me——"

"No. 'Fore Heaven, I don't like the risk. You may be my Lady in disguise, and I may rub my eyes and find that a trick has been put on me, I will into no coach whatever to-night. I will keep to my own feet, though, indeed, they are so shaken with much running about that I can't rely on them. I'll to the surgeon and have him examine them, and let me know why they do not hold up under me as they was wont."

"How long has Urith been ill?"

"Now, look here!" said Mr. Solomon Gibbs, approaching the window closer, and lowering his voice. "Poor thing, poor thing! Prematurely, and the babe dead—she out of her mind, crazed like—the house upside down, and me running about the country, looking into every alehouse I can call to mind, to make inquiries after Anthony, and not a footprint of him anywhere, and he has gone off with a horse—the apple-grey—you know him."

"I can tell thee where Anthony Cleverdon is—he has followed the highest call—the voice of religion and of his country's need. He has ridden away to join the Duke of Monmouth."

"Whew!" whistled Solomon. "And his wife like every minute to die! I'll go back and tell her. This is ugly tidings—he tried to give me a blow 'gainst all laws of the game, this past day, but that I forgive him. But to run off and never leave a word at home, and Urith dying! That I'll never forgive."

"If I encounter him in the camp I will tell him the tidings; and now I must along. This delay has been great. Wilkey! what are you standing there agape for? Urge the horses on; by this time we should have been at the top of Black Down. Fare thee well, Master Gibbs."

He waived his hand out of the window.

The whips were cracked, shouts, oaths, and entreaties recommenced, and the vehicle was again in motion. Mr. Solomon Gibbs remained standing.

But the carriage had not gone forward many yards before Mr. Gibbs came striding up to the window; he put his head through and said, "Your worship! Are you aware that the boot-flap behind is down?"

"Boot—behind!" almost screamed Mr. Crymes. "Let me out! Heigh! Stay the horses! Wilkey! the door!"

He scrambled out of the coach, called for the lantern, and ran behind.

The flap was down, the boot open—and empty.

The coach had been unladen either at the slough at the foot of the hill, or during the commotion occasioned by the discovery of Mr. Solomon Gibbs.