The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. “Your mother was a Gypsy. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said.
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