from the iron tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four hours--it was
about seven when he started--Dick had accomplished full sixty miles!

A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past, and one
or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of Coventry would have
had small chance of beholding the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had
she ridden at the rate of Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor,
almost as soon as he appeared.

Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by dew-gemmed
hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows, or pasture land, with
drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on either side. But what to
Turpin, at that moment, is nature, animate or inanimate? He thinks only
of his mare--his future fame. None are by to see him ride; no
stimulating plaudits ring in his ears; no thousand hands are clapping;
no thousand voices huzzaing; no handkerchiefs are waved; no necks
strained; no bright eyes rain influence upon him; no eagle orbs watch
his motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no
sweepstakes--no plate. But his will be renown--everlasting renown; his
will be fame which will not die with him--which will keep his
reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of men. He wants
all these adventitious excitements, but he has that within which is a
greater excitement than all these. He is conscious that he is doing a
deed to live by. If not riding for _life_, he is riding for
_immortality_; and as the hero may perchance feel--for even a highwayman
may feel like a hero,--when he willingly throws away his existence in
the hope of earning a glorious name, Turpin cared not what might befall
himself, so he could proudly signalize himself as the first of his land,

_And witch the world with noble horsemanship!_

What need had he of spectators? The eye of posterity was upon him; he
felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made many a poor wight
spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a chance of reaching the goal
as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet unborn, he knew would hear and laud his
deeds. He trembled with excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the
emotion was transient. On, on they fly! The torrent leaping from the
crag--the bolt from the bow--the air-cleaving eagle--thoughts themselves
are scarce more winged in their flight!

_CHAPTER VII_

_THE YORK STAGE_

YORK, FOUR DAYS!--_Stage Coach begins on Friday, th