worked for him, and accordingly thrust his hand inside the old fur coat
when he had loosed the uninjured horse, and drew out a long-bladed
knife. Then he knelt, and setting down the lantern, felt for the place
to strike. When he found it his courage almost deserted him, and
meeting the eyes that seemed to look up at him with dumb appeal, turned
his head away. Still, he was a man who would not shirk a painful duty,
and shaking off the sense of revulsion turned again and stroked the
beast's head.

"It's all I can do for you," he said.

Then his arm came down and a tremor ran through the quivering frame,
while Winston set his lips tightly as his hand grew warm. The thing
was horrible to him, but the life he led had taught him the folly of
weakness, and he was too pitiful to let his squeamishness overcome him.

Still, he shivered when it was done, and rubbing the knife in the
withered leaves, rose, and made shift to gird a rug about the uninjured
horse. Then he cut the reins and tied them, and mounting without
stirrups rode towards the bridge. The horse went quietly enough now,
and the man allowed it to choose its way. He was going home to find
shelter from the cold, because his animal instincts prompted him, but
otherwise almost without volition, in a state of dispassionate
indifference. Nothing more, he fancied, could well befall him.




CHAPTER II