gleamed in a violet sky.

The young Squire was the first to recover, and kneeling by the
panting, overwrought horse he passed his hand gently over the
tangled mane and down the foam-flecked face. The red eye rolled
up at him; but it was wonder not hatred, a prayer and not a
threat, which he could read in it. As he stroked the reeking
muzzle, the horse whinnied gently and thrust his nose into the
hollow of his hand. It was enough. It was the end of the
contest, the acceptance of new conditions by a chivalrous foe from
a chivalrous victor.

"You are my horse, Pommers," Nigel whispered, and he laid his
cheek against the craning head. "I know you, Pommers, and you
know me, and with the help of Saint Paul we shall teach some other
folk to know us both. Now let us walk together as far as this
moorland pond, for indeed I wot not whether it is you or I who
need the water most."

And so it was that some belated monks of Waverley passing homeward
from the outer farms saw a strange sight which they carried on
with them so that it reached that very night the ears both of
sacrist and of Abbot. For, as they passed through Tilford they
had seen horse and man walking side by side and head by head up
the manor-house lane. And when they had raised their lanterns on
the pair it was none other than the young Squire himself who was
leading home, as a shepherd leads a lamb, the fearsome yellow
horse of Crooksbury.