Like a stone from a catapult Galliard flew over its head and rolled down the few remaining yards of the slope into a very lake of slimy water at the bottom.
Down this same hill, some twenty minutes later, came Kenneth Stewart with infinite precaution.

He was in haste--a haste more desperate far than even Crispin's.

But his character held none of Galliard's recklessness, nor were his wits fogged by such news as Crispin had heard that night.

He realized that to be swift he must be cautious in his night-riding.

And so, carefully he came, with a firm hand on the reins, yet leaving it to his horse to find safe footing.
He had reached the level ground in safety, and was about to put his nag to a smarter pace, when of a sudden from the darkness of the hedge he was hailed by a harsh, metallic voice, the sound of which sent a tremor through him.
"Sir, you are choicely met, whoever you may be.