When Henry Little came to himself, he was seated on men's hands, and being carried through the keen refreshing air.

Mr.Raby was striding on in front; the horse's hoofs were clamping along on the hard road behind; and he himself was surrounded by swordsmen in fantastic dresses.
He opened his eyes, and thought, of course, it was another vision.
But no, the man, with whose blows his body was sore, and his right arm utterly numbed, walked close to him between two sword-dancers with Raby-marks and Little-marks upon him, viz., a face spotted with blood, and a black eye.
Little sighed.
"Eh, that's music to me," said a friendly voice close to him.

It was the King George of the lyrical drama, and, out of poetry, George the blacksmith.
"What, it is you, is it ?" said Little.
"Ay, sir, and a joyful man to hear you speak again.

The cowardly varmint! And to think they have all got clear but this one! Are ye sore hurt, sir ?" "I'm in awful pain, but no bones broken." Then, in a whisper--"Where are you taking me, George ?" "To Raby Hall," was the whispered reply.
"Not for all the world! if you are my friend, put me down, and let me slip away." "Don't ask me, don't ask me," said George, in great distress.

"How could I look Squire in the face?
He did put you in my charge." "Then I'm a prisoner!" said Henry, sternly.
George hung his head, but made no reply.
Henry also maintained a sullen silence after that.
The lights of Raby came in sight.
That house contained two women, who awaited the result of the nocturnal expedition with terrible anxiety.
Its fate, they both felt, had been determined before they even knew that the expedition had started.
They had nothing to do but to wait, and pray that Henry had made his escape, or else had not been so mad as to attempt resistance.
In this view of things, the number and even the arms of his assailants were some comfort to them, as rendering resistance impossible.
As for Mr.Coventry, he was secretly delighted.