hair's breadth on the iron hands that never moved from his withers.

"They're off!" Guy taking the lead; well over the first two fences, fair
hunting ones; the third is a teaser--an ugly black bulfinch, with a
ditch on the landing side, and a drop into a plowed field. The
chestnut's devil is thoroughly roused by this time. When within sixty
yards of the fence, he puts on a rush that even his rider's mighty
muscles can not check: his impetus would send him through a castle wall;
but he hardly rises at the leap, taking it, too, where there is a
network of growers--a crash that might be heard in the grand stand--and
horse and man are rolling in the field beyond.

Flora Bellasys strikes her foot angrily with her riding-whip, and turns
very pale.

Ten lengths behind, the mare comes up, well in hand, and slips through
the bulfinch without a mistake--hardly with an effort--just at the only
place where you can see daylight through the blackthorn.

What is Guy doing? Even in that thundering fall he has never let the
reins go. Horse and rider struggle up together. A dozen arms are ready
to lift him into the saddle, and a cheery voice says in his ear, "Hold
up, squire; keep him a going, and you'll catch the captain yet!" He
hardly hears the words though, for his head is whirling, and he feels
strangely sick and faint; but before he has gone a hundred yards his
face has settled into its habitual resolute calmness, only there is a
thin thread of blood creeping from under his cap, and his brow is bent
and lowering.

A fall, which would have taken the fight out of most horses, has only