H. Bedford-Jones

“ At this instant Spence leaped out suddenly as one of the horses plunged past; he caught the beast in mid-career, dragged himself into the high saddle. That harsh, crackling voice electrified him; it was the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. Now he perceived the man’s figure, off to one side, and directed the plunging horse toward it.
“Assassin!” he shouted. “This time you shall not escape.”
Another musket shot rang out. Spence felt a shock—and darkness came upon him. He bowed forward, his body supported by the huge Moorish saddle, his fingers twined into the mane of the horse. ”

“ God love ye, what a bonny creature it is.”
“You’re English?” said the astonished Spence, as he dismounted. “I need feed for the horse more than for myself.”
“God love ye, an honest man thinks for his beastie first. Come in, and lead the horse after ye, sir. ’Tis like entertaining a prince to have a horse o’ that blood under my roof! True Njed quarter strain, I’ll warrant. Come in, sir, and welcome!”
Feeling as though in a dream, Spence entered the hut, a clean place, where the old man dwelt alone. ”

“ Turn south to Udjde, or north to Adjerud, a tiny bit of a port that the Moors use.
“For a fine gentleman like you ’tis no journey at all! Sunset will see ye safe with lackeys and servants, and sojers, too, belike! God love ye, sir, ’tis no ride at all. Now wait ye here till I get some fresh tomatoes from the garden—”
The ancient shuffled away.
Within an hour Spence had breakfasted and mounted again. Spence forced money on the old man, and with a final “God love ye!” ringing in his ears, he rode away down the valley. ”