“On! on!” whispers Percy bending to the bow, and whispering hoarsely to the long roan, his very soul in tremor, his lips parched, his forehead and lip dripping sweat.
Into the midst of ’em; nearly throwing Lord Brookwood from his seat; off his beast like a thunderbolt, and with a long leap up on the boards beside Lambe, the butcher, and Biggs, the Justice, and Frewen, the Curate.
“By God! Sirs,” cries he, “what’s this ye’re doing? This gentleman’s Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent!” tearing the hemp from Her Ladyship’s throat, from her wrists; pushing away the three of ’em, and half lifting the supposed Baronet in his lusty arms, he drags, carries, swings Peg down to the ground, and up into his own saddle.
And then the explanations! the astonishments; the monstrous wonder of it. The humility, the subjection, the apologies; the supplications of all these Lords, Gentlemen, Ladies, worthies, worships, vagabonds and multitudes.
Woman-like, as she sits there for a few moments, dazed, so sudden fetched from death to life, she has but the thought that ’tis to him she loves she owes deliverance.
But none of their hospitality or amends will she have, or even listen to; no tarrying at Brookwood Castle; no smallest glance back for all the wheedles and coaxes of Lady Diana, Lady Biddy, the Honorable Dolly and the rest. All she asks, and gets, is her scrawl from Mr. Frewen.
Courtly acceptance of Lord Brookwood’s abject attempts at amends; gracious bows, hands, words, laughter at last; and My Lady in a hastily procured post-chaise bids the gibbet at Brook-Armsleigh Village farewell, and starts for London, where she swears she’s due and must not fail of being, for to-morrow, Sunday.
Sir Percy, too, affirms, he must up to town without delay, to have the honor and pleasure of himself rehearsing at Will’s the splendid courage of Sir Robin, and his almost miraculous escape from a horrible and ignominious death.
In truth Percy longed, after the excitements of the past four-and-twenty hours, to be alone; to seek, as was his wont of late, in some unfrequented, obscure part of the town, such as the desolate neighborhood of the Dove Pier, an opportunity to ponder upon Lady Peggy; to guess fruitlessly of her whereabouts; to curse himself, and Sir Robin who had, with a good cause, he generously allowed, so known how to win her from him; to marvel how, at ev’ry turn, this same Baronet appeared to become entangled in his own matters; to question if Peggy were indeed now the lawful wedded wife of this gentleman from Kent. In brief, to pester Fate with queries and surmises far too numerous and intricate to set down.