and had all been of his frame of mind, there had been no ignominious
surrender at Preston. Whilst fighting was to be done, no man fought so
hard, or with such thorough enjoyment, as Stokoe. "Surrender" was a part
of the great game that he did not understand; he was not of the stuff
that deals in "regrettable incidents." At Preston that day, when all was
done, there stood King George's men on either side, as well as in his
front; in his rear a high stone wall, even to a man less heavily
handicapped than he by weight, an obstacle almost insurmountable. But
his horse was good--Stokoe's horses _had_ to be good--and it knew its
master. Never hitherto had the pair refused any jump, and they were not
like to begin now. With a rush and a scramble, and the clatter of four
good feet against the stone coping, they were over; over and away,
galloping hard for the North Countrie, the free wind whistling past
their ears as they sped, Stokoe throwing up his arm and giving a
mocking cheer as each ineffective volley of musketry from the troops
spluttered behind him; and the great roan horse snatched at his bit, and
snorted with excitement.

Yes, that part of it was worth living for, and the blood danced in the
veins of horse and man while the chase lasted. But what of it when once
more the hills of Northumberland were regained, when the great moors
that lay grim and frowning under the dark November skies were again
beneath his horse's feet? It was a different matter then, for the hue
and cry was out, and the earths all stopped against this gallant fox.
Chesterwood was closed to him, no friend dared openly give him shelter.

"He had fled, had got clear away to France," was the story they gave
out. But Frank Stokoe all the time lay snug and safe in hiding, not so
very far from his own peel tower. And he was one of those who,
disguised--perhaps in his case not very effectually--ventured to London,