The magistrate sat his horse in something of a total stupor. His mouth was open wide and his thoughts blasted into one another. He wasn’t sure what he should do as the mob dissented into fist waving calls for retribution.

He was actually concerned and frightened by the tension amongst the people, some of whom he had known most of his life. He had thought to bring Montlaine in for questioning, if only to clear the viscount’s name and move on. He had not expected any of this.

However, on the other hand, the law must not be flouted. It was his sworn duty to do what he had set out to do, arrest the Viscount of Montlaine.

It was at that moment he was joined by two mounted officers who had heard ‘talk’ in town about proposed violence to the viscount and had come unbidden to stand by their magistrate.

He sighed with relief and told them, “Thank God you have come. Chase him down. He must not escape.”

Shouts and shaking fists could be heard and seen as the villagers followed the mounted officers, who carefully covered ground and left those on foot in the dust.

Some ten minutes later, the exhausted villagers had lost sight of both officers and began, with mumbles and threats, to disband as they headed for their homes.

During this time, the magistrate attempted to catch up with his officers, but made a wrong calculation and became thoroughly lost in the dark.

It was then, as he sat his horse and attempted to make a decision as to which direction he should take, that he saw the unmistakable silhouette of horse and rider.

“What the deuce?” the magistrate said out loud. “Where is he headed?” He hurried after the viscount, but frowning, stopped his horse again. “Why is Montlaine headed for Bodmin Heights?” The magistrate had recognized some of the landscape and there was no question that was where the viscount was headed. There was no escape in that direction! Only cliffs and ocean.

What was Montlaine doing?

He could see the foaming waves crashing against the boulders that jutted into the brine and wondered why the viscount would race his horse in that direction?

He shouted, but the roar of the wind out-voiced him. Had the viscount gone mad?

It was then that his officers arrived beside him, then hurried after the viscount, shouting out to him to stop.

* * *

The viscount slowed his horse, dismounted, and bent to feel the ground. If he was being followed successfully, they were too far away to matter.

He remounted and changed direction. Exasperated, he had to do this several times before he headed where he needed to go. The officers were useless at tracking.

He was waiting for them. He had to time this just right.

As he slowed Midnight to a walk, he shook his head over his problem. This was worse, so much worse than he had anticipated. He needed a solution. At the moment, he only saw one, and it was an extremely unpleasant one.

He urged his horse forward, taking him carefully through the Bodmin Moors. As matters stood, the case against him looked strong on the surface. He would need help and time if he was ever to clear his name. Both were things he lacked at the moment, and he grimaced to himself as he veered southeast, heading for Bodmin Heights.

Montlaine knew they were getting close. It was what he wanted them to do.

He jumped off his horse, took a precious moment to pat his stallion’s wide black velvet neck and speak soothingly into the alert animal’s ears. Then tying the reins so they would not interfere with his horse and sliding the stirrups up so they wouldn’t bang his horse’s sides, he stroked him lovingly. They had seen much together, he and this wonderful horse. He had trained him for many things…but now would be another test.

“Home, Midnight. Home!” He gave his stallion’s rump a gentle but firm slap.

Midnight understood the command, the viscount was sure of it, yet he saw by the way the horse stretched his neck and then nuzzled him that his horse was loathe to leave him. So once again, he told him, “Home! Midnight, home!”

Midnight whinnied, then took off for home.

The viscount had wasted precious time, time he didn’t have. He wanted them to witness what he was about to do, but he didn’t want them close enough to stop him.

It had been a long time since he had last dived into the treacherous waters below. The rocks were deadly and the current just as bad, and this time, he would have to appear as though he were falling. There was every chance that he would not survive.

“Right then,” he said as he took up position.

“Get him!” one of the officers, gun in hand, yelled as he dismounted his horse to follow the other who had already dismounted.

“I think not!” yelled the viscount, stepping farther back, then suddenly releasing a scream as real as the event—for he was, in fact, reeling backward into space as he went over the edge at Bodmin Heights!

The officers ran to the edge and cried out with genuine horror. No one actually wanted this. After all, the viscount had not been proven guilty in a court and he was a Montlaine. There would be a price to pay for this day’s work and they knew it.

“Upon my soul!” the magistrate, who was breathing hard as he ran towards his officers, exclaimed. “Could he survive that fall?”

“No, no one could,” said one of his officers.

And even so, they stood at the edge, looking over, for a goodly while!