Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. Man's fate is in his own hands. I wonder. He, next, seized the unlucky jailer, and forced him along, while Blueskin expedited his movements by administering a few kicks behind.
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