g into the highroad to
Hopeworth. Here they paused, and were just about to part, when the
sound of a horse's feet in rapid but very irregular motion arrested
their attention. The animal and his rider soon came into view, the
latter evidently keeping his seat with difficulty. There was plainly a
struggle of some kind going on between the brute and the _rational_
being who was mounted on him, and while drawing the reins tight with one
hand, was belabouring the poor creature about the head most unmercifully
with a heavy hunting whip. The horse not appreciating the advantages of
this treatment at the hands of its _intellectual_ owner, was resisting
by a shuffling, remonstrating sort of gallop; while his rider, who was
evidently a practised horseman, seemed to stick to his saddle by a kind
of instinct, having little else to guide him, for his hat was completely
shaken down over his eyes.

Mr Tankardew's indignation was kindled in a moment.

"The wretch! The drunken beast!" he cried; "serve him right if his
horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty
water in it."

On came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but
nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. At the sight of the
ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of Mr Tankardew, the animal
swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered
himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged
forward with his almost unconscious burden. The horseman took no notice
of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful
degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was Mark Rothwell.
Another minute and he was out of sight.

Mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother's arms, while Mr
Tankardew sprang forward to support them both. In a moment or two,
however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. The
old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and
courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town.

"Humph!" he muttered to himself; "`Good entertainment for man and
beast,' that's what they put over some of these alcohol shops. I'd like
to know which was the beast just now. Entertainment! Ay, very
entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. O miserable
drink! Haven't you drowned souls enough yet?"

Two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, Mark Rothwell made
an early call at "The S