Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped a high bank; and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill. Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The descent was so perilous, and the footing so insecure, that he chose rather to trust to such conveyance as nature had furnished him with, than to hazard his neck by any false step of the horse. He contrived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping his own course in a more secure direction.
He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that mountain pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, with tenacious hoof, he will claw the rock, and drag himself from one impending fragment to another, with perfect security to his rider; how he will breast the roaring currents of air, and stand unshrinking at the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But it is not so with the horse: fleet on the plain, careful over rugged ground, he is timid and uncertain on the hill-side, and the risk incurred by Luke and Turpin, in their descent of the almost perpendicular sides of the cliff, was tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent with some admiration, and with much contempt.
“He will break his neck, of a surety,” said he; “but what matters it? As well now as hereafter.”
So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he could see them more distinctly.
The passage along which Luke rode had never before been traversed by horse’s hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zig-zag path amongst the cliffs, without any defence for the foot traveller, except such as was afforded by a casual clinging shrub, and no protection whatever existed for a horseman; the possibility of anyone attempting the passage not having, in all probability, entered into the calculation of those who framed it. Added to this, the steps were of such unequal heights, and withal so narrow, that the danger was proportionately increased.
“Ten thousand devils!” cried Turpin, staring downwards; “is this the best road you have got?”
“You will find one more easy,” replied Luke, “if you ride for a quarter of a mile down the wood, and then return by the brook side. You will meet me at the priory.”
“No,” answered the highwayman, boldly; “if you go, I go too. It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where another would lead. Proceed.”
Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and steadily commenced the descent, fixing his fore-legs upon the steps, and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin’s mare was completely shown. No Alpine mule could have borne its rider with more apparent ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her by hand and word; but she needed it not. The sexton saw them, and, tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than he anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke.
“He is gone,” cried Peter. “He falls—he sinks—my plans are all defeated—the last link is snapped. No,” added he, recovering his wonted composure, “his end is not so fated.”
Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the precipice a few yards. Luke’s fate seemed inevitable. His feet were entangled in the stirrup, he could not free himself. A birch-tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, arrested his further fall. But for this timely aid all had been over. Here Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the stirrup and to regain his feet; seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back again to the road.
“You have had a narrow escape, by Jove,” said Turpin, who had been thunderstruck by the whole proceeding. “Those big cattle are always clumsy; devilish lucky it’s no worse.”
It was now comparatively smooth travelling; but they had not as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke’s object to take a circuitous path. This was so evident, that Turpin could not help commenting upon it.
Luke evaded the question. “The crag is steep there,” said he; “besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them.”
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