is even so," said Wayland Smith, "the best friends must part,
Flibbertigibbet; but thou, my boy, art the only thing in the Vale of
Whitehorse which I shall regret to leave behind me."

"Well, I bid thee not farewell," said Dickie Sludge, "for you will be
at these revels, I judge, and so shall I; for if Dominie Holiday take me
not thither, by the light of day, which we see not in yonder dark hole,
I will take myself there!"

"In good time," said Wayland; "but I pray you to do nought rashly."

"Nay, now you would make a child, a common child of me, and tell me of
the risk of walking without leading-strings. But before you are a mile
from these stones, you shall know by a sure token that I have more of
the hobgoblin about me than you credit; and I will so manage that, if
you take advantage, you may profit by my prank."

"What dost thou mean, boy?" said Tressilian; but Flibbertigibbet only
answered with a grin and a caper, and bidding both of them farewell,
and, at the same time, exhorting them to make the best of their way from
the place, he set them the example by running homeward with the same
uncommon velocity with which he had baffled Tressilian's former attempts
to get hold of him.

"It is in vain to chase him," said Wayland Smith; "for unless your
worship is expert in lark-hunting, we should never catch hold of
him--and besides, what would it avail? Better make the best of our way
hence, as he advises."

They mounted their horses accordingly, and began to proceed at a round
pace, as soon as Tressilian had explained to his guide the direction in
which he desired to travel.

After they had trotted nearly a mile, Tressilian could not help
observing to his companion that his horse felt more lively under him
than even when he mounted in the morning.

"Are you avised of that?" said Wayland Smith, smiling. "That is owing
to a little secret of mine. I mixed that with an handful of oats which
shall save your worship's heels the trouble of spurring these six hours
at least. Nay, I have not studied medicine and pharmacy for nought."

"I trust," said Tressilian, "your drugs will do my horse no harm?"

"No more than the mare's milk; which foaled him," answered the artist,
and was proceeding to dilate on the excellence of his recipe when he
was interrupted by an explosion as loud and tremendous as the mine which
blows up the rampart of a beleaguered city. The horses started, and the
riders were equally surprised. They