in the chestnut's neck, and its life-blood slowly ebbed away.

As he turned towards her again, Orlando was startled by a sudden action
on the part of his broncho. Whether it was the smell of blood which
frightened it, or death itself, which has its own terrors to animal life,
or whether it was as though a naked, shivering animal soul passed by, the
broncho started, shied and presently broke into a trot; then, before
Orlando could reach it, into a gallop, and was away down the prairie in
the direction of Slow Down Ranch.

"That's queer," he said, and he gave a nervous little laugh. "It's the
worst of luck, and--and we're twelve miles from Tralee," he added slowly.

"It's terrible!" Louise said, her fingers twisting together in an effort
at self-control. "Don't you see how terrible it is?" she asked, looking
into Orlando's troubled face but cheerful eyes.

"You couldn't walk that distance, of course," he remarked.

She endeavoured to get to her feet, but seemed to give way. He reached
out his hands. She took them, and he helped her up. His face was
anxious. "Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked. "There's nothing
broken," she answered. "No bones, anyway. But I don't feel--" She
swayed. He put an arm around her.

"I don't feel as if I could walk even a mile," she continued. "It's
shaken me so."

"Or else you're hurt badly inside," he said apprehensively.