孤身骑车人（12）（在线收听）

“That's the man!” I gasped.

A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was  down and his shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of  energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He was  flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded  face, saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing  from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular  contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were  as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at  the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his  face.

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle  to block our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart?  Pull up, man!” he yelled, drawing a pistol from his  side pocket. “Pull up, I say, or, by George, I'll put  a bullet into your horse.”

Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from  the cart.

“You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet  Smith?” he said, in his quick, clear way.

“That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart.  You ought to know where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in  it. We drove back to help the young lady.”

“Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?” cried the  stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. “They've got her,  that hellhound Woodley and the blackguard parson. Come,  man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand by me  and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in  Charlington Wood.”

He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a  gap in the hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving  the horse grazing beside the road, followed Holmes.

“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing  to the marks of several feet upon the muddy path.  “Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this in the bush?”

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an  ostler, with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his  back, his knees drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head.  He was insensible, but alive. A glance at his wound  told me that it had not penetrated the bone.

“That's Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He  drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed  him. Let him lie; we can't do him any good, but we may  save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the  trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded  the house when Holmes pulled up.

夜雨之后，早晨一陽一光灿烂，长满石南灌木丛的农村，点缀

“就是那个人！"我气喘吁吁地说。

一个无伴骑车人向我们冲过来。他低着头，双肩滚一圆，把全身气力都用在脚蹬子上，象赛车的人一样蹬得飞快。突然他抬起满是一胡一子的脸，见我们近在眼前，便停下车，从自行车上跳下来，他那乌黑的一胡一子和苍白的脸色形成鲜明的对照。他双目闪亮，仿佛正在极度兴奋之中。他瞪眼瞅着我们和那辆马车，然后脸上显出惊异的神色。

“喂！停下！"他大声喊道，用他的自行车把我们的路挡住，"你们在哪儿弄到的这辆马车？嗨，停下！"他从侧面口袋中掏出手槍咆哮道，"告诉你，停下，要不然，我可真的要赏你那骑马一颗子弹了。”

福尔摩斯把缰绳扔到我腿上，从马车上跳下来。

“你正是我们要见的人，维奥莱特·史密斯小一姐在哪里？”福尔摩斯连忙清晰地问道。

“我正要问你们呢。你们坐的是她的马车，应当知道她在哪儿。”

“我们在路上碰到这辆马车，上面没有人，我们才把车赶回来去救那位姑一娘一。”

“天哪！天哪！我怎么办哪？"那个陌生人绝望地喊道，"他们把她抓走了，那个该死的伍德利和那个恶棍牧师！快来，先生，假如你们真是她的朋友，那就快来。帮我一同搭救她吧，我横一尸一查林顿森林也在所不惜！”

他提着手槍向树篱的一个豁口疯狂跑去，福尔摩斯紧跟在后，我把马放到路旁吃草，也跟在福尔摩斯身后跑过去。

“他们是从这儿穿过去的，"陌生人指着泥泞小路上的足迹说道，"喂！停一下！编木丛里是什么人？”

那是个十七八岁的小伙子，衣着象马夫，穿着皮裤，打着绑腿。他仰面躺着，双膝蜷曲，头上有一道可怕的伤口，已经失去知觉，不过还有气息。我把他的伤口看了一眼，知道没有伤到骨头。

“这就是马夫彼得，"陌生人喊道，"他就是给那姑一娘一赶车的。那些畜生把他拉下车来用棍棒打伤了。让他先躺在这儿吧，我们反正救不了他，可是我们却可以从可能落到一个女人身上的最坏厄运中把她搭救出来。”

我们发疯一般向林中盘曲小径奔去，一到环绕着宅院的灌木丛，福尔摩斯就站住了。