Shakespeare The lane was thick with darkness. Shadows lay upon shadows and swallowed any moonlight. Trent let his mount pick his way up the path. They were both exhausted. Horse and rider had seen the sun rise and set without rest. The day was lost, and the Midnight Rider with it. Forty-two men had scoured the countryside, riding forty-two horses through meadows and forests and caves. Forty-two men found nothing, not so much as a track left in the muddy soil. Trent scrubbed his face, the stubble on his jaw scratched against his leather gloves. The search had been disbanded hours ago, after hunger and tiredness had worn away at the men. After they had disintegrated into aggression and unreasonableness, as men were wont to do. The impromptu assemblage had done exactly what Trent had feared when he had refused to gather the militia before. They forgot their common enemy and preyed on a different one, an impulsive one. At least no one was shot. Trent had seen to that when their weapons were pulled on each other.
