solitude of Tereggles Long Wood, past lonely lochs on
which little clattering ripples were blowing, into a west that was all
barred gold and red islands of fire, we rode. Or rather grandfather and
I went steadily but slowly on our pony, while beside us, sometimes
galloping a bit, anon trotting, came big Mr. Richard Poole on his black
horse. Sometimes he would ride off up a loaning to some farm-town where
he had a job to be seen to, or rap with the butt of his loaded whip at
the door of some roadside inn--the Four Mile house or Crocketford, where
he would call for a tankard and drain it off, as it were, with one toss
of the head.

It was easy to be seen that, for some reason of his own, he did not wish
to get to Heathknowes before us. Yet, after he had asked my grandfather
as to the children, and some details of the attack on the house of
Marnhoul (which he treated as merely an affair between two rival bands
of smugglers) he was pretty silent. And as we got nearer home, he grew
altogether absorbed in his thoughts.

But I could not help watching him. He looked so fine on his prancing
black, with the sunset glow mellowing his ruddy health, and his curious
habit of constantly making the thong of his horsewhip whistle through
the air or smack against his leg.

I had met as big men and clever men, but one so active, so healthy, so
beautiful I had never before seen. And every time that a buxom wife or a
well-looking maid brought him his ale to the door of the change-house,
he would set a forefinger underneath her chin and pat her cheek, asking
banteringly after the children or when the wedding was coming off. And
though they did not know him or he them, no one took his words or acts
amiss. Such was the way he had with him.

And about this time I began to solace myself greatly with the thought of
the meeting there would be between these two--the false Poole and the
true.

At last we came in the twilight to the Haunted House of Marnhoul, and
Mr. Richard made his horse rear almost as high as the unicorn does in
the sign above the King's Arms door, so suddenly did he swing him round
to the gate. He halted the beast with his head against the very bar and
looked up the avenue. The grass in the glade was again covered with dew,
for the sky was clear and it was growing colder every minute. It shone
almost like silver, and beyond was the house standing like a dim
dark-grey patch between us and the forest.

"This gate has been m