saddled,
bridled, with no rider! Why? Where--then? Hastily she undid the latch,
ran through, and saw Summerhay lying in the mud--on his back, with eyes
wide-open, his forehead and hair all blood. Some leaves had dropped on
him. God! O God! His eyes had no sight, his lips no breath; his heart
did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his face--in the blood on
his poor head. Gyp raised him--stiffened, cold as ice! She gave one cry,
and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her strength,
kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him,
trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay still, her
lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the
fallen leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over
with the scent of rain. Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head down
and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild
gallop round the field. . . .

Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay's return to stable-up for the night,
heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his
little eyes against the sunset. He could see a loose horse galloping
down there in "the wild," where no horse should be, and thinking: "There
now; that artful devil's broke away from the guv'nor! Now I'll 'ave to
ketch 'im!" he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait
of his stiff-jointed feet. The old horseman characteristically did not
think of accidents. The guv'nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that
heavy gate--the one you had to lift. That 'orse--he was a masterpiece of
mischief! His difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that
did not easily forgive.

Half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen shaking and gasping,
tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks into the corners of his gargoyle's
mouth, and panted out:

"O, my Gord! Fetch the farmer--fetch an 'urdle! O my Gord! Betty, you
and cook--I can't get 'er off him. She don't speak. I felt her--all
cold. Come on, you sluts--quick! O my Gord! The poor guv'nor! That
'orse must 'a' galloped into the linhay and killed him. I've see'd the
marks on the devil's shoulder where he rubbed it scrapin' round the wall.
Come on--come on! Fetch an 'urdle or she'll die there on him in the mud.
Put the child to bed and get the doctor, and send a wire to London, to
the major, to come sharp. Oh, blarst you all--keep your 'eads! What's