Syn read on,” to remind him that he has not sent me an invitation to meet the Prince of Wales. Of all your guests I

am probably the only one he has ever heard of or would care to meet. As the best rider of Romney Marsh and the

best mounted, I shall be a credit to you. Nail my invitation to the gibbet post of Dymchurch. I will collect it. If you

fail to do so, the worst will happen, and in any case I am determined to ride in your Royal Hunt.”

The signature was a crude drawing of a scarecrow, and by the time Doctor Syn had reached it, Sir Henry was

repeating his words like a bewildered schoolboy.

“And now what am I to do?” he asked pathetically.

“Knowing the Scarecrow to be a creature of his word,” replied Syn, “I can only suggest that you do what he

asks.”

“You mean invite him?” gasped the Squire.

“I think he will come if you don’t,” said the Vicar.

“But he would be walking into a trap,” said the Squire. “He would not dare.”

“He has dared a good deal, as we know to our coast,” went on the vicar. “Are all your invitation sent out?”

Sir Henry went to a bureau and handed Doctor Syn a list of names. “I have sent all these that are marked, and the

others will be sent today.”

“Has it occurred to you sir, that the Scarecrow may be one of these gentlemen not yet asked? Since none of us

know who he is, it is obvious we would not recognize him if he comes.” Doctor Syn looked at the list and then

added: “May I have a copy of these guests? I would like to consider them one by one at leisure.”

The Squire of Lympne assenting, doctor Syn sat down and made a copy of the list, and then under his host’s

direction, marking off those who were to follow the hounds.

On the ride back to Dymchurch, Doctor Syn gave this list to Mipps saying, “Our next ‘run’ is on the night of the

Prince’s arrival. The Meet is on the following morning. The scarecrow will borrow all horses from these stables,

with the exception of the Prince’s chestnut. I only wish that animal to be fresh, so let the warning go out as usual to

open all stable doors, especially these. Warn all grooms in our power, for I know they would rather fail their

masters for the hunt than the Scarecrow. They will remember that those who have failed us in the past have

disappeared into the mist.”

Whatever may be said about the Scarecrow’s secrecy, in that not one of his followers save tow, Mipps and

Highwayman, knew who he was, his methods of challenge were always in the open. The night before the Prince’s

arrival at Lympne Castle, the Scarecrow’s chalk effigy was scrawled upon all the stable doors, including those of the

gentry who were providing mounts for the Royal Hunt.

The grooms concerned knew that it was to their advantage to betray their masters rather than to play false with

the mysterious being who could put many guineas in their purses by borrowing their masters’ cattle. He never stole

the horses. No. They were all returned before the dawn, sweated and muddy maybe, but with a secret bag of money

in their mangers. Such head stablemen who had defied the chalk order to open the stable doors, had mysteriously

disappeared, so their philosophy was rather to make suck monies as they could instead of wreaking their humble

homes. That this particular hunt was a Royal one weighed not a jot with them. They were loyal to the master they

dreaded. The master who was the most good to them and their families, for the Scarecrow never failed those who

were faithful, and gave them higher payment than the squires they served. And they were more than well paid for

the extra grooming they were bound to do.

Unfortunately no amount of horse-care could make the animals fresh after the gruelling riding of a Scarecrow’s

‘run’.

And the scarecrow had seen to it that this particular ‘run’ was harder than ever on the horses.

Every member of the Hunt was furious to find after the first gallop that all the ginger had gone out of his mount.

Not so the Prince. Three miles hard riding showed His Royal Highness that he had a mount in Colindale that could

outstrip them all.

Sir Antony had shown the greatest skill in arranging the course. Two kills, which saw the pack still fresh but the

horses tired, and then the third fox broke cover, and it was from this cunning fellow that the master planned to get

the run of the day; a fox that could be depended on to give the pack a long, long course. For the first time in his life

the Prince found that his riding and his alone could hold the pack. For the first time, too, he found himself riding

alone, unattended. One by one the others had dropped out, either worn with terrific pace or come to grief at the

stretched jumps over the countless dykes. Twice the old fox led them to the hills and down again, and then once

more in and out, doubling the dyke-cut fields.

When dusk fell the Prince was far out of sight from his followers, and the old fox still led the pace, but it was

across the Kent Ditch and away into Sussex that he showed first signs of exhaustion. The Prince’s excitement was

then redoubled, for he saw the kill in sight, and the honour of being alone. He had shown these Kent squires what

riding was. His voice was hoarse with halloing when he heard that at first he thought was his own echo. Whenever

he cried out to the hounds, a derisive answer came from the mist behind him. And then he heard above the tongue

of the pack, and thundering of hooves that did not belong to Colindale, and he realized that another huntsman was

pressing up behind him.

Determined not to be cheated at the last moment of the honour for which he had striven so hard, His Royal

Highness pricked Colindale forward desperately. As a huntsman he resented being robbed of his line kill, and as

Heir Apparent he was exceedingly displeased at the derisive laughter coming nearer and nearer from his pursuer.

In full cry the pack was hidden in the mist ahead, and the Prince kept glancing back for a sight of his rival.

Catching a glimpse of a magnificent wild head of a coal-black horse, he shouted haughtily to the rider to rein back.

With another scornful laugh the rider’s answer was to press alongside Colindale, and the Prince saw the rider’s face,

which gave him such a shock that he all but lost his seat. It was a demon horseman with a hideous face that shone

like phosphorus in the mist, and his clothes were wild black rags that streamed behind him as he rode. Keeping pace

easily beside him, the figure croaked out: “The fox ahead has been named the Devil Fox of Romney Marsh, and no

one shall take his brush but I the scarecrow. You may tell the Lord of Lympne that you have had the honour of

riding neck to neck with the best horseman of the county. Farewell.”

The aspiration streaked forwards, and as Colindale screamed with terror, disappeared in the mist ahead.

After the scream the Prince found that the spirit had gone out of Colindale, and he had the greatest difficulty in

urging the poor beast forward. Ahead in the mist could be heard the cries of the kill, and the Prince guesses rightly

that it was taking place on the summit of a grassy knoll confronting him. Dismounting he led the unwilling

Colindale up the slope, and in doing so climbed out of the lowlying mist.

It was a strange sight for the Heir Apparent. Above the pack who were fighting for their share of the hard -won

spoil stood the terrible figure of the Scarecrow, with a blooded hunting-knife in one hand and a whip and the brush

in the other. Behind him stood his great black horse, Gehenna.

On seeing the Prince, the Scarecrow bowed, and said in a deep, croaking voice: “I am desolated to rob Your