While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the
riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching
what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and
his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no
noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something
was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward
that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall
young man, and the pride of his family.

There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the
farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his
son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that
lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one
of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came
back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek,
and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for
years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and
there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field
afterward.

Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time,
and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was
covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came
another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept
tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to
bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never
knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.