turf was like thunder. The Blight's face
was white and the little sister was gripping
my arm with both hands. A third horseman
shot into view out of the woods at
tight angles, to stop them, and it seemed
that the three horses must crash together
in a heap. With a moan the Blight buried
her face on my shoulder. She shivered
when the muffled thud of body against
body and the splintering of wood rent the
air; a chorus of shrieks arose about her,
and when she lifted her frightened face
Marston, the Discarded, was limp on the
ground, his horse was staggering to his
feet, and the Wild Dog was galloping past
her, his helmet gleaming, his eyes ablaze,
his teeth set, the handle of his broken
spear clinched in his right hand, and blood
streaming down the shoulder of the black
horse. She heard the shots that were sent
after him, she heard him plunge into the
river, and then she saw and heard no
more.





VIII