adjacent field, and from
this they gained the shelter of the trees. Trenchard, neglectful of
his finery and oblivious of the ubiquitous brambles, left his horse in
Vallancey's care and crept to the edge of the thicket that he might take
a peep at the pursuers.

They came up very soon, six militiamen in lobster coats with yellow
facings, and a sergeant, which was what Mr. Trenchard might have
expected. There was, however, something else that Mr. Trenchard did not
expect; something that afforded him considerable surprise. At the head
of the party rode Sir Rowland Blake--obviously leading it--and with him
was Richard Westmacott. Amongst them went a man in grey clothes,
whom Mr. Trenchard rightly conjectured to be the messenger riding for
Whitehall. He thought with a smile of what a handful he and
Wilding would have had had they waited to rob that messenger of the
incriminating letter that he bore. Then he checked his smile to consider
again how Sir Rowland Blake came to head that party. He abandoned the
problem, as the little troop swept unhesitatingly round to the left and
went pounding along the road that led northwards to Bridgwater, clearly
never doubting which way their quarry had sped.

As for Sir Rowland Blake's connection with this pursuit, the town
gallant had by his earnestness not only convinced Colonel Luttrell of
his loyalty and devotion to King James, but had actually gone so far as
to beg that he might be allowed to prove that same loyalty by leading
the soldiers to the capture of those self-confessed traitors, Mr.
Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. From his knowledge of their haunts he was
confident, he assured Colonel Luttrell, that he could be of service
to the King in this matter. The fierce sincerity of his purpose shone
through his words; Luttrell caught the accent of hate in Sir Rowland's
tense voice, and, being a shrewd man, he saw that if Mr. Wilding was to
be taken, an enemy would surely be the best pursuer to accomplish it. So
he prevailed, and gave him the trust he sought, in Spite of Albemarle's
expressed reluctance. And never did bloodhound set out more relentlessly
purposeful upon a scent than did Sir Rowland follow now in what he
believed to be the track of this man who stood between him and Ruth
Westmacott. Until Ruth was widowed, Sir Rowland's hopes of her must lie
fallow; and so it was with a zest that he flung himself into the task of
widowing her.

As the party passed out of view round the an