Would he ever get to the end of it? Yet he
would not own that he could go no farther while the man still kept
his grip. He was white with foam and caked with mud. His eyes
were gorged with blood, his mouth open and gasping, his nostrils
expanded, his coat stark and reeking. On he flew down the long
Sunday Hill until he reached the deep Kingsley Marsh at the
bottom. No, it was too much! Flesh and blood could go no
farther. As he struggled out from the reedy slime with the heavy
black mud still clinging to his fetlocks, he at last eased down
with sobbing breath and slowed the tumultuous gallop to a canter.
Oh, crowning infamy! Was there no limit to these degradations?
He was no longer even to choose his own pace. Since he had chosen
to gallop so far at his own will he must now gallop farther still
at the will of another. A spur struck home on either flank. A
stinging whip-lash fell across his shoulder. He bounded his own
height in the air at the pain and the shame of it. Then,
forgetting his weary limbs, forgetting his panting, reeking sides,
forgetting everything save this intolerable insult and the burning
spirit within, he plunged off once more upon his furious gallop.
He was out on the heather slopes again and heading for Weydown
Common. On he flew and on. But again his brain failed him and
again his limbs trembled beneath him, and yet again he strove to
ease his pace, only to be driven onward by the cruel spur and the
falling lash.
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