Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these ridiculous manœuvres; but his attention was chiefly attracted towards three individuals, who were evidently the leaders of this warlike expedition. In the thin, tall figure of the first of these, he recognised Ranulph Rookwood. With the features and person of the second of the group he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied (nor incorrectly fancied) that his military bearing, or, as he would have expressed it, “the soldier-like cut of his jib,” could belong to no other than Major Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley Common. In the round; rosy countenance and robustious person of the last of the trio he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyrconnel.
“Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there?” exclaimed Dick, as he distinguished the Irishman. “Come, I have one friend among them whom I may welcome. So, they see me now. Off they come, pell-mell. Back, Bess, back—slowly, wench, slowly—there—stand!” And Bess again remained motionless.
The report of Turpin’s pistol reached the ears of the troop; and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented himself at the archway, when a loud shout was raised, and the whole cavalcade galloped towards him, creating, as may be imagined, the wildest disorder; each horseman yelling, as he neared the arch, and got involved in the press occasioned by the unexpected concentration of forces at that point, while oaths and blows, kicks and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty good-will, that, had Turpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of King Agramante’s ramp, this mêlée must have struck him as its realisation. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of the result, he shouted encouragement to them. Scarcely, however, had the foremost horseman disentangled himself from the crowd, and, struggling to the door, was in the act of levelling his pistol at Turpin’s head, when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vowing vengeance, a second succeeded, and was in like manner compelled to bite the dust.
“That will let old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is at hand,” exclaimed Dick. “I shan’t throw away another shot.”
The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion. Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have drawn back, while others, in mid career, advanced, and propelled them forwards. It was like the meeting of two tides. Here and there, regardless of the bit, and scared by the firing, a wild colt broke all bounds, and, hurling his rider in the air, darted off into the green; or, in another case, rushed forward, and encountering the prostrate cattle cumbering the entrance to the priory hall, stumbled, and precipitated his master neck-over-heels at the very feet of his enemy. During all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the highwayman, which without doing him a jot of mischief, tended materially to increase their own confusion.
The voice of Turpin was now heard above the din and turmoil to sound a parley; and as he appeared disposed to offer no opposition, some of his antagonists ventured to raise themselves from the ground, and approach him.
“I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood,” said Turpin.
“He is here,” said Ranulph, riding up. “Villain, you are my prisoner.”
“As you list, Sir Ranulph,” returned Dick, coolly; “but let me have a word in private with you ere you do aught you may repent hereafter.”
“No words, sir—deliver up your arms, or—”
“My pistols are at your service,” replied Dick. “I have just discharged them.”
“You may have others. We must search you.”
“Hold!” cried Dick; “if you will not listen to me, read that paper.” And he handed Ranulph his mother’s letter to Mr. Coates. It was without the superscription, which he had thrown aside.
“My mother’s hand!” exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with anger, as he hastily perused its contents. “And she sent this to you? You lie, villain—’tis a forgery.”
“Let this speak for me,” returned Dick, holding out the finger upon which Lady Rookwood’s ring was placed. “Know you that cipher?”
“You have stolen it,” retorted Ranulph. “My mother,” added he, in a deep stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin’s hearing, “would never have intrusted her honour to a highwayman’s keeping.”