"Perhaps these are highwaymen."

"Oh, good gracious! Let us get indoors and bar up," cried Mrs.
Tarne, wholly forgetful of Reuben Pemberthy's safety after this
suggestion. "Yes, it's as likely to be highwaymen as soldiers."

It was more likely. It was pretty conclusive that the odds were
in favour of highwaymen when, five minutes afterward, eight mounted
men rode up to the Maythorpe farm-house, dismounted with considerable
noise and bustle, and commenced at the stout oaken door with the
butt-ends of their riding-whips, hammering away incessantly and
shouting out much strong language in their vehemence. This, being
fortunately bawled forth all at once was incomprehensible to the
dwellers within doors, now all scared together and no longer cool
and self-possessed.

"Robbers!" said Mrs. Tarne.

"We've never been molested before, at least not for twenty years
or more," said Mrs. Pemberthy; "and then I mind--"

"Is it likely to be any of Reuben's friends?" asked Sophie, timidly.

"Oh no; Reuben has no bellowing crowd like that for friends. Ask
who is there--somebody."

But nobody would go to the door save Sophie Tarne herself. The
maids were huddled in a heap together in a corner of the dairy,
and refused to budge an inch, and Mrs. Tarne was shaking more than
Mrs. Pemberthy.