So, as soon as the horses were baited and themselves refreshed, they mounted once more, and pushed gaily along, feeling themselves quite equal to repel any wretched footpads who might try to assault them.
As for the regular highway robbers, well armed and well mounted, they favoured better-frequented routes than this.

Open heaths were their favourite hunting grounds, though they liked well enough to lie in hiding in the forests when they had brought too much notoriety upon themselves.

These unfrequented forest paths did not offer them sufficient hope of booty to attract them in large numbers, and Tom had no fear of meeting an enemy too strong for him.
But security is not always safety, as Tom was destined to find to his cost.

In spite of their best efforts, and the gallant response made by their good horses, dusk fell whilst they were still threading the tortuous forest paths, and Robin was fain to admit that he would be puzzled to find the way in the dark; indeed, he was not certain that he was on the right track now.
It was impossible to ride fast in the gathering darkness, and upon so rough a way; and Tom had more than once suggested that they should make their bed in some hollow tree, and wait for daylight before pursuing their journey.
They had halted in an open place, and were just discussing the matter, when--whiz!--a bullet grazed the flank of Wildgoose, and the mettlesome creature reared straight into the air, threatening to fall backwards over his rider.
"Mark ho!" cried a loud voice, and there was a crackling of the underwood all round.
"It is the footpads!" cried Robin.

"I have beard that call before;" and in a moment the travellers had their pistols out, and were warily awaiting the first sign of attack.
It was not long in coming.