from the fork of the Banbury road, his feet making little white puffs in
the dust as he flew. "They are coming! they are coming!" he shrieked
as he ran.

Then up to his feet sprang Robin Getley, upon the saddle-backed
coping-stones, his hand upon Nick Attwood's head to steady himself, and
looked away where the rippling Stour ran like a thread of silver beside
the dust-buff London road, and the little church of Atherstone stood
blue against the rolling Cotswold Hills.

"They are coming! they are coming!" shrilled little Tom, and scrambled
up the coping like a squirrel up a rail.

A stir ran out along the guard-wall, some crying out, some starting up.
"Sit down! sit down!" cried others, peering askance at the water
gurgling green down below. "Sit down, or we shall all be off!"

Robin held his hand above his eyes. A cloud of dust was rising from the
London road and drifting off across the fields like smoke when the old
ricks burn in damp weather--a long, broad-sheeted mist; and in it were
bits of moving gold, shreds of bright colors vaguely seen, and silvery
gleams like the glitter of polished metal in the sun. And as he looked
the shifty wind came down out of the west again and whirled the cloud of
dust away, and there he saw a long line of men upon horses coming at an
easy canter up the highway. Just as he had made this out the line came
rattling to a stop, the distant drumming of hoofs was still, and as the
long file knotted itself into a rosette of ruddy color amid the April
green, a clear, shrill trumpet blew and blew again.

"They are coming!" shouted Robin, "they are coming!" and, turning, waved