And a mighty joy fills his heart, for now
the hand upon his bridle restrains him no longer--nay, rather urges
him forward; and far in the distance gallop others of his kind,
others whom he scorns, one and all--notably a certain gray. Therefore
as he spurns the earth beneath him faster and faster, the heart of
"The Terror" is uplifted and full of rejoicing.
But,--bruised, bleeding and torn, all mud from heel to head, and
with a numbness in his brain Barnabas rides, stooped low in the
saddle, for he is sick and very faint. His hat is gone, and the cool
wind in his hair revives him somewhat, but the numbness remains. Yet
it is as one in a dream that he finds his stirrups, and is vaguely
conscious of voices about him--a thudding of hoofs and the creak of
leather. As one in a dream he lifts "The Terror" to a fence that
vanishes and gives place to a hedge which in turn is gone, or is
magically transfigured into an ugly wall. And, still as one in a
dream, he is thereafter aware of cries and shouting, and knows that
horses are galloping beside him--riderless. But on and ever on races
the great, black horse--head stretched out, ears laid back, iron
hoofs pounding--on and on, over hedge and ditch and wall--over fence
and brook--past blown and weary stragglers--his long stride unfaltering
over ploughland and fallowland, tireless, indomitable--on and ever on
until Barnabas can distinguish, at last, the horsemen in front.
Pages:
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597