Blind, frantic fury surged in the yellow horse's heart once more
at this new degradation, this badge of serfdom and infamy. His
spirit rose high and menacing at the touch. He loathed this
place, these people, all and everything which threatened his
freedom. He would have done with them forever; he would see them
no more. Let him away to the uttermost parts of the earth, to the
great plains where freedom is. Anywhere over the far horizon
where he could get away from the defiling bit and the insufferable
mastery of man.
He turned with a rush, and one magnificent deer-like bound carried
him over the four-foot gate. Nigel's hat had flown off, and his
yellow curls streamed behind him as he rose and fell in the leap.
They were in the water-meadow now, and the rippling stream twenty
feet wide gleamed in front of them running down to the main
current of the Wey. The yellow horse gathered his haunches under
him and flew over like an arrow. He took off from behind a
boulder and cleared a furze-bush on the farther side. Two stones
still mark the leap from hoof-mark to hoof-mark, and they are
eleven good paces apart. Under the hanging branch of the great
oak-tree on the farther side (that Quercus Tilfordiensis ordiensis
is still shown as the bound of the Abby's immediate precincts) the
great horse passed. He had hoped to sweep off his rider, but
Nigel sank low on the heaving back with his face buried in the
flying mane.
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