She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard, he was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house.
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