Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms.
Past scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant [Greek text] like
those who swayed the City of the Violet Crown; past pifferari
dancing in front of many an albergo; through the Ghetto with its
marmorine palaces, over the Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine,
down the streets of the Vatican we flew among yells of "Owner's
up," "The gelding wins, hard held," from the excited bourgeoisie.
Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we reached the Pons
Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to the sea.

THE PONS SUBLICIA WAS UP!

With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders
into Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the
flooded Tiber!

"Va-t-en donc, espece de type!" said the girl on my saddle-bow,
finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto
kept her silent.

Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the
good steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the
Quorn or the Baron's. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water,
cold in the moon's rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey
line in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an
eternity! Then we landed on the far-off further bank, and for the
first time I could take a pull at his head. I turned him on the
river's brim, and leaped him back again.

The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park.