sliding under him, a pair of sweating ears, a flapping mane, and before
him a tumble of old roofs; while beyond in the harbour, the spars of
a sloop of war pricked the evening.

Clear of the little town huddling on the hillside, he drove along the
bank of the slow green river, flogging still.

One thing was clear: the grey was dead-beat.

He was roaring like a furnace, and straight as a rail from tail to
muzzle. Black and white with sweat, he jerked along at a terrible toppling
stagger. Only those vice-like legs and hands plucking, plucking, kept
body and soul together.

Where the river widened, and the sea gleamed misty across the
harbour-mouth, as though he knew his mission was fulfilled, up went
his head, and he fell in thundering ruin.

Where he fell he lay, lank-necked.

The tail twitched once; the body trembled; the great heart broke.




CHAPTER II


THE GALLOPING GENT