The storm continued with unabated fury for nearly an hour, at the
expiration of which time it partially cleared off, and though it was still
profoundly dark, the duke insisted upon going on. So they pressed
forward beneath the dripping trees and through the wet grass. Ever
and anon the moon broke through the rifted clouds, and shed a wild
glimmer upon the scene.
As they were tracking a glade on the farther side of the hill, the spectral
huntsmen again swept past them, and so closely that they could almost
touch their horses. To the duke's horror, he perceived among them the
body of the butcher, Mark Fytton, sitting erect upon a powerful black
steed.
By this time, Shoreditch, having somewhat regained his courage,
discharged another shaft at the troop. The arrow struck the body of
the butcher, and completely transfixed it, but did not check his career;
while wild and derisive laughter broke from the rest of the cavalcade.
The Duke of Richmond hurried after the band, trying to keep them in
sight; and Shoreditch, flinging down his bow, which he found useless,
and grasping his staff, endeavoured to keep up with him. But though
they ran swiftly down the glade, and tried to peer through the darkness,
they could see nothing more of the ghostly company.
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