It was a fearful sight as
they rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels
in the light of the very sunbeams, and the sword of the pursuer within a
few feet of the fugitive. Still the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on
the gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life
of its rider depended upon its speed. His flaxen locks waived behind him
in the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his
ear, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom. The horse upon which
Wedderburn rode had been wounded in the conflict, and, as they drew near
Broomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers, Trotter and Dickson,
took the lead in the pursuit. The Chevalier had reached a spot on the
right bank of the Whitadder, which is now in a field of the farm of
Swallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous
trappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth. The next moment
the swords of Trotter and Dickson were through the body of the
unfortunate Chevalier.
"Off with his head!" exclaimed Wedderburn, who at the same instant
reached the spot.
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