had quite lost my bearings.

"'A matter of a couple of miles, your honour,' said he. I saw then
that he was a little innocent-looking old man like a child, and I
remembered Patsy's description of the one he'd bought Mustapha from in
the fair of Keele.

"'The horse seems to know you,' said I.

"'It's a foal of me own rarin',' said he, 'an' more betoken he was out
of a mare that kilt a man, an' a fine man--poor Mr. Terence Comerford,
Lord rest him! She was a beauty, an' I could do anything with her.
She was sent to the fair to be sold and no one 'ud touch her. I got
her for a twinty-pound note. Only for her foals the roof wouldn't be
over me head. This wan was the last o' them.'"

Sir Shawn's voice failed and died away.

"Give me a little more of that stuff, Mary," he said weakly. "I want
to finish, and then I can sleep. You don't know how it has oppressed
me."

She obeyed him, and, after an interval, he went on again.

"So that was where Spitfire went. I never could make out. And there
was I riding a colt of hers, and a worse one than Spitfire to manage.
I had great difficulty in getting Mustapha away from his old master,
but at last I succeeded, and we jogged along: as he covered the long
road he seemed to become quieter. I think I dozed in the saddle. I
know I thought it was Spitfire I was riding and not Mustapha. I
remember calling him Spitfire as I woke up and encouraged him.

"The night was as dark as I expected, but there was some glimmer from
overhead and I could see the bog-pools either side of us as we crossed
the bog. It wasn't much guidance to keep us to the road, but we'd
crossed the railway bridge, and I could see the lights of Castle
Talbot; I was lifting my heart towards you, Mary, as I've always done
at that point when--something ran across the road--it might have been
only a rabbit--just under Mustapha's feet. Then he was out of control.
He reared backwards towards the bog, trying to throw me. I had a
struggle with him. It could hardly have lasted a minute, but it seemed
a long time. There did not seem any chance for either of us; all I
could think of was that I was riding Spitfire's son and that he was
going to kill me, and that, maybe, it was a sort of reparation I had to
make. Besides, I should be free of Baker and his threats, and he could
never harm you through me. But all the time the instinct to live was
strong, and I'd got my feet clear of the stirrups, for I didn't wa