He was blind and giddy with fatigue.
He saw no longer where he placed his feet, he cared no longer
whither he went, but his one mad longing was to get away from this
dreadful thing, this torture which clung to him and would not let
him go. Through Thursley village he passed, his eyes straining in
his agony, his heart bursting within him, and he had won his way
to the crest of Thursley Down, still stung forward by stab and
blow, when his spirit weakened, his giant strength ebbed out of
him, and with one deep sob of agony the yellow horse sank among
the heather. So sudden was the fall that Nigel flew forward over
his shoulder, and beast and man lay prostrate and gasping while
the last red rim of the sun sank behind Butser and the first stars
gleamed in a violet sky.
The young Squire was the first to recover, and kneeling by the
panting, overwrought horse he passed his hand gently over the
tangled mane and down the foam-flecked face. The red eye rolled
up at him; but it was wonder not hatred, a prayer and not a
threat, which he could read in it. As he stroked the reeking
muzzle, the horse whinnied gently and thrust his nose into the
hollow of his hand. It was enough. It was the end of the
contest, the acceptance of new conditions by a chivalrous foe from
a chivalrous victor.
"You are my horse, Pommers," Nigel whispered, and he laid his
cheek against the craning head.
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