great yellow horse. The villagers of Shottermill heard the wild
clatter of hoofs, but ere they could swing the ox-hide curtains of
their cottage doors horse and rider were lost amid the high
bracken of the Haslemere Valley. On he went, and on, tossing the
miles behind his flying hoofs. No marsh-land could clog him, no
hill could hold him back. Up the slope of Linchmere and the long
ascent of Fernhurst he thundered as on the level, and it was not
until he had flown down the incline of Henley Hill, and the gray
castle tower of Midhurst rose over the coppice in front, that at
last the eager outstretched neck sank a little on the breast, and
the breath came quick and fast. Look where he would in woodland
and on down, his straining eyes could catch no sign of those
plains of freedom which he sought.

And yet another outrage! It was bad that this creature should
still cling so tight upon his back, but now he would even go to
the intolerable length of checking him and guiding him on the way
that he would have him go. There was a sharp pluck at his mouth,
and his head was turned north once more. As well go that way as
another, but the man was mad indeed if he thought that such a
horse as Pommers was at the end of his spirit or his strength. He
would soon show him that he was unconquered, if it strained his
sinews or broke his heart to do so. Back then he flew up the
long, long ascent. Would he ever get to the end of it? Yet he
would not own that he could go no farther while the man still kept
his grip. He was white with foam and caked with mud. His eyes
were gorged with blood, his mouth open and gasping, his nostrils
expanded, his coat stark and reeking. On he flew down the long
Sunday Hill until he reached the deep Kingsley Marsh at the
bottom. No, it was too much! Flesh and blood could go no