ditch which must be
first cleared was broader. Nor did he take it at the easiest part as
he had done on that day when he rode his own horse and then Graham's
back into the wood. But he pressed his animal exactly at the spot
from which his rival had fallen. There were still the marks of the
beast's struggle, as he endeavoured to save himself before he came
down, head foremost, into the ditch. The bank had been somewhat
narrowed and pared away, and it was clearly the last place in the
face of the whole opening into the wood, which a rider with his
senses about him would have selected for his jump.

The horse knowing his master's humour, and knowing also,--which is so
vitally important,--the nature of his master's courage, jumped at the
bank, without pausing. As I have said, no time had been given him to
steady himself,--not a moment to see where his feet should go, to
understand and make the most of the ground that he was to use. He
jumped and jumped well, but only half gained the top of the bank. The
poor brute, urged beyond his power, could not get his hind feet up so
near the surface as to give him a fulcrum for a second spring. For a
moment he strove to make good his footing, still clinging with his
fore feet, and then slowly came down backwards into the ditch, then
regained his feet, and dragging himself with an effort from the mud,
made his way back into the field. Peregrine Orme had kept his seat
throughout. His legs were accustomed to the saddle and knew how to
cling to it, while there was a hope that he might struggle through.
And now that he was again in the field he wheeled his horse to a
greater distance, striking him with his whip, and once more pushed
him at the fence. The gallant beast went at it bravely, slightly
swerving from the fatal spot to which Peregrine had endeavoured once
more to guide him, leaped with a full spring from the unworn turf,
and, barely touching the bank, landed himself and his master lightly
within the precincts of the wood.

"Ah-h!" said Peregrine, shouting angrily at the horse, as though the
brute had done badly instead of well. And then he rode down slowly
through the wood, and out by Monkton Grange farm, round the moat, and
down the avenue, and before long he was standing at Noningsby gate.

He had not made up his mind to any plan of action, nor indeed had he
determined that he would ask to see any of the family or even enter
the place. The woman at the lodge opened the gate,