After close on two hours' hard riding the fugitives drew rein. They had not spoken except once to confer on direction, Marion having simply stated that they were returning to Garth. Roger had pointed out the cross-country track where he thought it most likely they would escape detection.

They were on the edge of a spur of the moor, and from its advantage they wheeled to scan the countryside. There was no sign of life save the cattle and ponies grazing in the rough grass.

Soon Marion became aware that Roger had turned his gaze on herself. Fingering her crop, she sat tongue-tied and helpless. She had dreamed of this moment, when she and Roger would find themselves riding homeward, the shadow of the gaol left behind, and a long chapter in their lives to recall, each for the other. The moment having come, she could do nothing but stare at her horse's head and run her crop in and out of his mane.

Roger's hand fell abruptly on hers. Marion raised her eyes and dropped them again. The hand tightened.

'I cannot say it,' said Roger huskily. 'I cannot.'

Marion glanced at the pale, worn face.

'Don't try,' she faltered, her composure breaking before the look in his eyes. 'I know just what you would say.'

'No one can,' said Roger in a low voice, 'who has not been at the very edge of the grave.'

Marion's hand gently touched Roger's. Tears shone on her lashes.

'I do believe,' she said tremulously, acting on a swift inspiration, 'I do believe I am hungry.'

Roger dropped his hand and turned his head away, and leaning over, Marion tried to unbuckle one of his saddlebags. Soon her companion became aware of her action. Hastily he dismounted. From the bag he drew out a flask of wine and a wallet of food.

'Venison pasty!' said he, staring at the piece Marion offered him. He snatched at it with an eagerness that went to her heart. Half-way to his lips he withdrew it. 'I am a brute!' he said. 'Forgive me. Where is yours?'

'Here. We have one each. Now I shall give you just five minutes, sir.'

Marion smiled down at the upturned face, but her hint brought Roger back to the present. He mounted again, and the two moved forward at a gentle pace, eating and talking as they rode. In a few words Marion explained her plans on his behalf.

'So you are going to banish me to the high seas,' said Roger at the end.

Marion was silent a minute. Then, rousing herself: ''Tis strange by what crooked means a man's fate overtakes him. Do you remember that day on the headland when the Fair Return set sail? My father always said that being a sailor bred and born you would in the end go to sea.'

The slight meal finished, they set their horses at a trot over the springing turf.

'What about my mother?' said Roger. 'Can I not see her before I sail, think you?'

'If we get down to Garth untroubled, perhaps yes. But we may have a close run for it.'

'I think we have not been seen yet,' said Roger.

'Except for the old woman.'

Roger was silent a while. About five miles out of the city they had come face to face with a small apple-cheeked dame setting out from her cottage with her basket of butter. The little low building, tucked in a fold of the moor, had been unnoticed by them, and they had reduced their speed, hoping that their headlong flight had not already been noted by some one within the cottage walls.

Marion had bidden the dame good morning and talked of the weather. The wind was steadily gathering, and every few minutes came fleeting squalls of rain. The old woman was not in a good temper. A wet market day in Exeter meant poor money for her butter. She feared a heavy storm was brewing. Then she added, not without several motherly glances for the pale-faced groom who rode just behind the lady: 'If so be you'm for Mortonhampstead, Mistress, 'twere best to take to the left down along and find the waggon track. Folk do sure lose themselves easily on they moors, and there be terr'ble danger of bogs up over. Only yesterday a gentleman got off the track. Mighty near to sinking in Tinker's Cup a'd been, with bog muck up to the horse's knees. 'Twas as fine a gentleman as ever a clapped eyes on. And a crown her gave me, as cool as day, for setting of un right.'

'Here's another to keep it company,' smiled Marion. 'Good day.'

In case she should be watching, the two had made a show of returning to the track she had pointed out, then branched to the north again, leaving Mortonhampstead, its chimneys beaten by driving smoke, away to the left.

'I don't think she noticed anything,' said Roger. 'And as you say, they'll be searching the river and the seaward country.'

After a time Roger reined in and looked about. They were out on the open moor. As he scanned the hills and gullies, the fair green bog stretches, he was seized by a conviction that they were not making the speed they should. In avoiding the dangers of the moor, they had been obliged to take a winding course. A landmark which should have been left miles behind lay at his shoulder.

'Marion,' he said suddenly, 'we must take to the waggon track if we wish to reach Garth to-day. We have lost half an hour wandering among these hummocks. Better make a rush for it that way than get hopelessly bogged or lost.'

Marion looked relieved. ''Twill be vastly easier to ride straight on so. And this heavy land is bound to weary the horses.'

By tacit consent the two spared no energy or time in speech. In a short time they gained the track. An hour later they passed through Postbridge. There they decided to feed the horses. While the greys were being attended to, Roger playing the part of groom among the stable men, Marion was entertained by the innkeeper with the news of the countryside. Among other details the host gave a description of a gentleman who had passed through on the previous evening, wishful to lie at Princetown. Listening, Marion mused a little on the coincidence: twice that morning she had heard of the stranger westward bound.

At the crest of the steep rise out of Postbridge Roger turned in his saddle and cast a keen eye over the Exeter road. With a swift gesture he pulled up his horse and remained motionless. Instantly on the alert, Marion stopped and followed the direction of his gaze. There was a lull in the storm; the sky had lightened over the east. A bar of watery sunlight fell across the hills that lay between Mortonhampstead and Postbridge. A couple of men on horseback showed against the skyline, minute figures only visible to those who had been trained from childhood to scan far distances. For a few seconds their horses showed clear. Then a driving cloud swathed the sunlight, and the moor lay misty and uncertain again.

'Did you see?' asked Roger quietly. 'Or did I imagine it?'

Marion nodded, and settling herself in her saddle raised her crop. An unexpected, heavy blow startled the grey into a canter that soon became a gallop. The second horse came easily alongside, Roger looking into his holsters as he rode. Before they had gone half a mile the storm on the height of the moor redoubled its fury. Rain lashed their faces. Bending sideways to the blast they drove the greys mercilessly on, only slightly slacking their speed as Princetown was reached and passed. There the track dropped into the valley. As the steaming animals picked their way down the slope, Marion turned to Roger.

'Do you think we should try to change horses at Tavistock?'

Roger shook his head. ''Tis but another thirty miles to Garth. These brutes will soon know, if they don't know now, that they are nearing home. They can do it. 'Twould mean at least ten minutes to change.'

Marion took what ease she could from the slackened pace. Her cloak and habit were soaked and hung limply about her. Wearily she drooped in the saddle, thankful for the respite from the storm that beat the heights.

'I am not worth it, Mawfy,' said Roger suddenly.

Marion smiled and straightened herself a little, but she made no reply. The bed of the valley passed, the greys trotted slowly up the slope.

'Now for it!' said Roger, as they gained comparatively level land. Soon they were at a straining gallop again, their heads bent to the wind and rain. From time to time they looked back, but the valley had swallowed their pursuers.

After a few more miles Marion became aware that her horse was a neck ahead of Roger's; then a length. Roger drove his heels into the grey's flanks. For a few yards they speeded alongside, then Marion found herself ahead again. She slightly checked her pace and glanced at her companion. There was a queer look on Roger's face. He slowed to a trot, leaning over to examine the action of his horse's feet.

'Wait a minute, Mawfy,' he said quietly. Hastily dismounting, he examined his horse's shoes and knees. 'I can see nothing,' he said, springing up again. 'It is perhaps a tendon that does not show any swelling yet.'

The horse, urged into speed, ran unevenly, jerking on the off hind. With crop and heel Roger pressed the brute to his utmost, but both the riders knew his miles were numbered. Neither spoke. Each had the same cold dread at heart.

'How far are we from Liskeard?' asked Marion faintly.

'Close on ten miles, I should think. But there should be an inn half-way.'

Mercilessly Roger forced the pace of the limping grey. 'It grieves me,' he said abruptly, 'but 'tis his life against mine.'

From time to time Marion looked fearfully over her shoulder. She knew that the wind, driving against them, would make it impossible for them to hear their pursuers till they were close at hand. Another quarter of an hour, at this rate, should bring them within hail.

'Take my horse and go on,' said ............