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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Sir Nigel"

"
She rose and turned upon him a face full of hope and entreaty.
"Oh, save my poor, poor father!" she cried. "Have you perchance
seen the way-wardens? They passed us, and I fear they are beyond
reach."
"Yes, they have ridden onward, but we may serve as well."
"Then hasten, hasten, I pray you! Even now they may be doing him
to death. They have dragged him into yonder grove and I have
heard his voice growing ever weaker in the distance. Hasten, I
implore you!"
Nigel sprang from his horse and tossed the rein to Aylward.
"Nay, let us go together. How many robbers were there, lady?"
"Two stout fellows."
"Then I come also."
"Nay, it is not possible," said Nigel. "The wood is too thick for
horses, and we cannot leave them in the road."
"I will guard them," cried the lady.
"Pommers is not so easily held. Do you bide here, Aylward, until
you hear from me. Stir not, I command you!" So saying, Nigel,
with the light, of adventure gleaming in his joyous eyes, drew his
sword and plunged swiftly into the forest.
Far and fast he ran, from glade to glade, breaking through the
bushes, springing over the brambles, light as a young deer,
peering this way and that, straining his ears for a sound, and
catching only the cry of the wood-pigeons. Still on he went, with
the constant thought of the weeping woman behind and of the
captured man in front.


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