water, the sorrel tugged at the snaffle, and went like a bullmoose
hurrying to his herd,

"That long low gallop that can tire
The hounds' deep hate or hunter's fire."

The pace was with the sorrel. Cumner's Son had not looked behind after
the first few miles, for then he had given up thought that he might be
followed. He sat in his saddle like a plainsman; he listened like a
hillsman; he endured like an Arab water-carrier. There was not an ounce
of useless flesh on his body, and every limb, bone, and sinew had been
stretched and hardened by riding with the Dakoon's horsemen, by
travelling through the jungle for the tiger and the panther, by throwing
the kris with Boonda Broke, fencing with McDermot, and by sabre practice
with red-headed Sergeant Doolan in the barracks by the Residency Square.
After twenty miles' ride he was dry as a bone, after thirty his skin was
moist but not damp, and there was not a drop of sweat on the skin-leather
of his fatigue cap. When he got to Koongat Bridge he was like a racer
after practice, ready for a fight from start to finish. Yet he was not
foolhardy. He knew the danger that beset him, for he could not tell,
in the crisis come to Mandakan, what designs might be abroad. He now saw
through Boonda Broke's friendship for him, and he only found peace for
his mind upon the point by remembering that he had told no secrets, had
given no information of any use to the foes of the Dakoon or the haters
of the English.

On this hot, long, silent ride he looked back carefully, but he could not
see where he had been to blame; and, if he were, he hoped to strike a
balance with his own conscience for having been friendly to Boonda Broke,
and to justify himself in his father's eyes. If he came through all