y was beyond realizing his bit.
Then Gething relaxed a little and let him go. He could guide him to
a certain extent. Stop him he could not.

The horse was now running flatly and rapidly. He made no attempt to
throw his rider. What jumps were in his way he took precisely.
Unlike the crazed runaway of the city streets Cuddy never took
better care of himself. It seemed that he was running for some
purpose and Gething thought of Willet's often repeated remark,
"Look at 'im--old Cuddy, he's thinking." Two miles had been covered
and the gait had become business-like. Gething, guiding always to the
left, was turning him in a huge circle. The horse reeked with sweat.
"Now," thought Gething, "he's had enough," but at the first pressure
on the bit Cuddy increased his speed. His breath caught in his throat.
There was another mile and the wonderful run grew slower. The man
felt the great horse trip and recover himself. He was tired out.
Again the fight between master and horse began. Cuddy resisted weakly,
then threw up his beautiful, white-starred face as if in entreaty.

"Oh, I'm----" muttered Gething and let the reins lie loose on his
neck, "your own way, Cuddy. Your way is better than mine. Old friend,
I'll not try to stop you again." For he knew if he tried he could
now gain control. The early dusk of spring had begun to settle on
the surface of the fields in a hazy radiance, a marvelous light that
seemed to breathe out from the earth and stream through the sky. A
mile to the east upon a hill was a farm house. The orange light from
the sunset found every window, blinded them and left them blank
oblongs of orange. The horse and rider passed closer to this farm.
Two collies rushed forward, then stopped to bark and jump. The light
enveloped them and gave each a golden halo.

Again Gething turned still keeping toward the left. A hill began to
rise before them and up it the horse sped, his breath whirring and
rattling in his throat, but his strength still unspent. To the very
top he made his way and paused dazed. "Oh, Cuddy," cried Gething,
"this is Break-Neck." For there was the wind-warped pine, the bank
of earth, the trench. The horse came to a shivering standstill. The
bank looked strange to him. He stood sobbing, his body rocking
slightly, rocking gently, then with a sigh, came slowly down on to
the turf. Gething was on his feet, his hand on the dripping neck.

"You always were a bad horse and I always loved you," he whis