ircumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, accompanied by a
postilion, the party again pursued their onward course, encouraged to
believe they were still in the right scent.

Night had now spread her mantle over the earth; still it was not wholly
dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep, cloudless heavens, and a
pearly radiance in the eastern horizon heralded the rising of the orb of
night. A gentle breeze was stirring; the dews of evening had already
fallen; and the air felt bland and dry. It was just the night one would
have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and
to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared
little less than heavenly.

Full of ardor and excitement, determined to execute what he had mentally
undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. Everything was favorable
to his project; the roads were in admirable condition, his mare was in
like order; she was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town
to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in
more perfect training. "She has now got her wind in her," said Dick;
"I'll see what she can do--hark away, lass--hark away! I wish they could
see her now," added he, as he felt her almost fly away with him.

Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess started forward at
a pace which few horses could have equalled, and scarcely any have
sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent
action, felt electrified at the speed with which he was borne along.
"Bravo! bravo!" shouted he, "hark away, Bess!"

The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing rang with his
shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs; and thus he held his way,
while, in the words of the ballad,

Fled past, on right and left, how fast,
Each forest, grove, and bower;
On right and left, fled past, how fast,
Each city, town, and tower.

_CHAPTER VI_

_BLACK BESS_

_Dauphin._ I will not change my horse with any that treads but on
four pasterns. _Ca, ha!_ He bounds from the earth as if his entrails
were hairs; _le cheval volant_, the Pegasus _qui a les narines de
feu_! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air;
the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is
more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

SHAKESPEARE: _Henry V., Act III._