The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 226: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE JOURNEY 209 moment to walk him through a roadside pond, and twice she leaped down to wash his mouth with a bunch of long erass damp with the pearly dew. He seems to recognize these attentions, to know that he is made much of, and also to be aware that he has a duty to perform in return. Yes, for a specific task is set. That good steed must be at Boughton ere the hand of his rider’s watch marks the hour of six. On, on, then, there is not an instant to lose. On, on! Ah! the goal is in view, there is the tall sign-post, and in a few moments more the panting steed halts in front of the Red Dragon. Again does Lady Bess look at her watch. Bravo! it still wants ten minutes to six o’clock. At the public-house which she has now reached a fresh horse is in readiness. The man Dean has not neglected the message delivered through the agency of the carrier-pigeon. A few rapid words are exchanged, another sip of ale taken, and away speeds Lady Bess on the last stage of her journey. Nineteen miles are before her. It will take an hour and a quarter to accomplish that distance, but she will enter Dover a few minutes after seven o’clock. Away she speeds, four miles are soon dashed over, and then she reaches the outskirts of Canterbury. But as at this hour many persons are astir, and she does not choose to court observation, she makes a slight circuit so as to avoid passing through the place altogether. She knows all that part of the country well, each lane, each turning, and in a few minutes does she emerge upon the highroad again on the furthermost outskirts of Canterbury. The relay-steed which she obtained at the Red Dragon was equal to the former, equal, too, as near as might be, to her own, and thus she gallops on like the wind. Without impediment, but in exul- tation, in almost frenzied joy, in a perfect delirium of delight, is mile after mile passed over, and now at length the tower- ing heights and gloomy fortalice of Dover Castle break upon her view. “ Hurrah! hurrah!’’ her voice rings out in swelling harmony to the breeze that already s seems fresh with the salt taste derived from the sea. Dover is reached. She looks at her watch again; it is ten minutes past seven. She has ridden from the northern outskirts of London in five hours and a half. Immediately on her arrival at the Admiral’s Head, Lady COnnICECLOOOkKS (C(O)