somber garb. This and other points of his attire, the short
hanging mantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt
which sustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the
prick spurs, would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at
the first glance the brown face set in gold and the dancing light
of the quick, reckless, laughing eyes, were the one strong memory
left behind.

Such was the youth who, cracking his whip joyously, and followed
by half a score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the
Tilford Lane, and thence it was that with a smile of amused
contempt upon his face he observed the comedy in the field and the
impotent efforts of the servants of Waverley.

Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy,
this passive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life. With a
spring he was off his pony, and with another he was over the stone
wall and flying swiftly across the field. Looking up from his
victim, the great yellow horse saw this other enemy approach, and
spurning the prostrate, but still writhing body with its heels,
dashed at the newcomer.

But this time there was no hasty flight, no rapturous pursuit to
the wall. The little man braced himself straight, flung up his
metal-headed whip, and met the horse with a crashing blow upon the
head, repeated again and again with every attack. In vain the
horse reared and tried to overthrow its enemy with swooping
shoulders and pawing hoofs. Cool, swift and alert, the man sprang
swiftly aside from under the very shadow of death, and then again
came the swish and thud of the unerring blow from the heavy