There were but few people abroad at that hour;
indeed, for that matter, the streets of London, in the dismal
summer of 1665, were, comparatively speaking, always deserted;
and the few now wending their way homeward were tired physicians
and plague-nurses from the hospitals, and several hardy country
folks, with more love of lucre than fear of death bending their
steps with produce to the market-place. These people, sleepy and
pallid in the gray haze of daylight, stared in astonishment after
the two furious riders; and windows were thrown open, and heads
thrust out to see what the unusual thunder of horses' hoofs at
that early hour meant. George followed dauntlessly on,
determined to do it or die in the attempt; and if he had ever
heard of the Flying Dutchman, would undoubtedly have come to the
conclusion that he was just then following his track on dry land.
But, unlike the hapless Vanderdecken, Sir Norman came to a halt
at last, and that so suddenly that his horse stood on his beam
ends, and flourished his two fore limbs in the atmosphere. It
was before La Masque's door; and Sir Norman was out of the saddle
in a flash, and knocking like a postman with the handle of his
whip on the door.
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