And down like a torrent swept the forces of De Ermstein, headed by the old, stern-hearted knight, who would not relinquish his victim. His men seemed animated by his own fury, and, with a devotion worthy of a better cause, nobly seconded his efforts. The pursuit was hot. Away they swept in the wake of the mosstroopers. The village was cleared. They were careering through the valley, all in a confused and disorderly band. De Ermstein kept foremost, sometimes far in advance, for he rode with the fury of a blast. To take the outlaw, to drag him back to the fallen gibbet; he perilled his life--everything--to gratify his mortified pride and disappointed revenge. What disgrace it was to behold the outlaw free once more. Free! And on some following night the valley of Warkcliff might be gleaming with the red blaze of the burning village, and echoing the death-cries of the ravaged. The gibbet for the outlaw!
Amazed at the sudden rescue--snatched from death at the last moment--Ruthven Somervil's brain reeled and swam when he was dragged out of the condemned cart, and mounted upon a horse. It was so like a troubled dream. _Was_ he rescued? He would have fallen from the saddle had not friendly and firm hands upheld him. He was sternly calm when the hangman approached him with the noosed rope in his hand--calm and collected _then_. But, when the first blow was struck, he became almost oblivious of what followed. And the great tumult that deafened his ear might have been the roaring of the tempestuous torrents of that unseen Jordan which rolls in darkness, washing the shores of Time and Eternity.
But, when the flight began, his recollection returned. He was in the midst of his men; he knew this one and the other around him in their disguises. Someone had put a steel cap upon his head, and he now found that he had a naked sword in his right hand, clutched as by the grasp of death. All at once he was restored to himself, saw and comprehended all clearly, felt his blood kindling in the headlong motion of flight, saw the pursuers following fast, brandished his sword, and faltered to his men, "Courage."
Courage? They had need of it. The pursuers were gaining upon them at every bound. The valley was far in the rear, hidden by the wreathing mists. The open Border was in front, and yonder stretched the blue heights of Cheviot. On and on; and now a scattered thicket received the mosstroopers. They were glad of its shelter, for the Southrons were at their heels.