An
ancient, mossy wall it is, yet hideous for all that, an almost
impossible jump, except in one place, a gap so narrow that but one
may take it at a time. And who shall be first? The Marquis is losing
ground rapidly--a foot--a yard--six! and losing still, races now a
yard behind Barnabas. Thus, two by two, they thunder down upon the
gap that is but wide enough for one. Slingsby is plying his whip,
Carnaby is rowelling savagely, yet, neck and neck, the sorrel and
the gray race for the jump, with Barnabas and the Marquis behind.
"Give way, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"Be damned if I do!" roars the Captain, and in go his spurs.
"Pull over, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"No, b'gad! Pull over yourself," roars the Captain. "Give way,
Carnaby--I have you by a head!"
An exultant yell from Slingsby,--a savage shout from Sir Mortimer--a
sudden, crunching thud, and the gallant sorrel is lying a twisted,
kicking heap, with Captain Slingsby pinned beneath.
"What, Beverley!" he cries, coming weakly to his elbow, "well ridden,
b'gad! After him! The 'Rascal' 's done for, poor devil! So am I,
--it's you or Carnaby now--ride, Beverley, ride!" And so, as Barnabas
flashes past and over him, Captain Slingsby of the Guards sinks back,
and lies very white and still.
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