He was a furlong or more from the spot before he quite realized the
danger he had escaped. His bow was unstrung in his hand, his arrows were
all in the quiver; thus, had the bolt struck him, even if the wound had
not been mortal (as it most likely would have been) he could have made
no resistance. How foolish to disregard the warnings of the grooms at
the castle! It was now too late; all he could do was to ride. Dreading
every moment to be thrown, he pushed on as fast as the horse would go.
There was no pursuit, and after a mile or so, as he left the firs and
entered the ash woods, he slackened somewhat. It was, indeed, necessary,
for here the hoofs of preceding horsemen had poached the turf (always
damp under ash) into mud. It was less dark, for the boughs of the ashes
did not meet above.

As he passed, wood-pigeons rose with loud clatterings from their
roosting-places, and once or twice he saw in the gloom the fiery
phosphoric eye-balls of the grey wood-cats. How gladly he recognised
presently the change from trees to bushes, when he rode out from the
thick ashes among the low hawthorns, and knew that he was within a mile
or so of the South Barrier at home! Already he heard the song of the
nightingale, the long note which at night penetrates so far; the
nightingale, which loves the hawthorn and the neighbourhood of man.
Imperceptibly he increased the speed again; the horse, too, knew that he
was nearing home, and responded willingly.

The track was much broader and fairly good, but he knew that at one spot
where it was marshy it must be cut up. There he went at the side, almost
brushing a projecting maple bush. Something struck the horse, he fancied
the rebound of a bough; he jumped, literally jumped, like a buck, and
tore along the road. With one foot out of the stirrup, it was with the
utmost difficulty he stuck to his seat; he was not riding, but holding