Sir Nigel

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  III. THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY

  In those simple times there was a great wonder and mystery in life. Manwalked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close above his head,and Hell below his very feet. God's visible hand was everywhere, in therainbow and the comet, in the thunder and the wind. The Devil too ragedopenly upon the earth; he skulked behind the hedge-rows in the gloaming;he laughed loudly in the night-time; he clawed the dying sinner, pouncedon the unbaptized babe, and twisted the limbs of the epileptic. A foulfiend slunk ever by a man's side and whispered villainies in his ear,while above him there hovered an angel of grace who pointed to the steepand narrow track. How could one doubt these things, when Pope and priestand scholar and King were all united in believing them, with no singlevoice of question in the whole wide world?

  Every book read, every picture seen, every tale heard from nurse ormother, all taught the same lesson. And as a man traveled through theworld his faith would grow the firmer, for go where he would therewere the endless shrines of the saints, each with its holy relic in thecenter, and around it the tradition of incessant miracles, with stacksof deserted crutches and silver votive hearts to prove them. At everyturn he was made to feel how thin was the veil, and how easily rent,which screened him from the awful denizens of the unseen world.

  Hence the wild announcement of the frightened monk seemed terriblerather than incredible to those whom he addressed. The Abbot's ruddyface paled for a moment, it is true, but he plucked the crucifix fromhis desk and rose valiantly to his feet.

  "Lead me to him!" said he. "Show me the foul fiend who dares to lay hisgrip upon brethren of the holy house of Saint Bernard! Run down to mychaplain, brother! Bid him bring the exorcist with him, and also theblessed box of relics, and the bones of Saint James from under thealtar! With these and a contrite and humble heart we may show front toall the powers of darkness."

  But the sacrist was of a more critical turn of mind. He clutched themonk's arm with a grip which left its five purple spots for many a dayto come.

  "Is this the way to enter the Abbot's own chamber, without knock orreverence, or so much as a 'Pax vobiscum'?" said he sternly. "You werewont to be our gentlest novice, of lowly carriage in chapter, devout inpsalmody and strict in the cloister. Pull your wits together and answerme straightly. In what form has the foul fiend appeared, and how has hedone this grievous scathe to our brethren? Have you seen him with yourown eyes, or do you repeat from hearsay? Speak, man, or you stand on thepenance-stool in the chapter-house this very hour!"

  Thus adjured, the frightened monk grew calmer in his bearing, though hiswhite lips and his startled eyes, with the gasping of his breath, toldof his inward tremors.

  "If it please you, holy father, and you, reverend sacrist, it came aboutin this way. James the subprior, and Brother John and I had spent ourday from sext onward on Hankley, cutting bracken for the cow-houses. Wewere coming back over the five-virgate field, and the holy subprior wastelling us a saintly tale from the life of Saint Gregory, when therecame a sudden sound like a rushing torrent, and the foul fiend sprangover the high wall which skirts the water-meadow and rushed upon uswith the speed of the wind. The lay brother he struck to the ground andtrampled into the mire. Then, seizing the good subprior in his teeth, herushed round the field, swinging him as though he were a fardel of oldclothes.

  "Amazed at such a sight, I stood without movement and had said a credoand three aves, when the Devil dropped the subprior and sprang upon me.With the help of Saint Bernard I clambered over the wall, but not beforehis teeth had found my leg, and he had torn away the whole back skirt ofmy gown." As he spoke he turned and gave corroboration to his story bythe hanging ruins of his long trailing garment.

  "In what shape then did Satan appear?" the Abbot demanded.

  "As a great yellow horse, holy father--a monster horse, with eyes offire and the teeth of a griffin."

  "A yellow horse!" The sacrist glared at the scared monk. "You foolishbrother! How will you behave when you have indeed to face the King ofTerrors himself if you can be so frightened by the sight of a yellowhorse? It is the horse of Franklin Aylward, my father, which has beendistrained by us because he owes the Abbey fifty good shillings and cannever hope to pay it. Such a horse, they say, is not to be found betwixtthis and the King's stables at Windsor, for his sire was a Spanishdestrier, and his dam an Arab mare of the very breed which Saladin,whose soul now reeks in Hell, kept for his own use, and even it has beensaid under the shelter of his own tent. I took him in discharge of thedebt, and I ordered the varlets who had haltered him to leave him alonein the water-meadow, for I have heard that the beast has indeed a mostevil spirit, and has killed more men than one."

  "It was an ill day for Waverley that you brought such a monster withinits bounds," said the Abbot. "If the subprior and Brother John be indeeddead, then it would seem that if the horse be not the Devil he is atleast the Devil's instrument."

  "Horse or Devil, holy father, I heard him shout with joy as he trampledupon Brother John, and had you seen him tossing the subprior as a dogshakes a rat you would perchance have felt even as I did."

  "Come then," cried the Abbot, "let us see with our own eyes what evilhas been done."

  And the three monks hurried down the stair which led to the cloisters.

  They had no sooner descended than their more pressing fears were set atrest, for at that very moment, limping, disheveled and mud-stained, thetwo sufferers were being led in amid a crowd of sympathizing brethren.Shouts and cries from outside showed, however, that some further dramawas in progress, and both Abbot and sacrist hastened onward as fastas the dignity of their office would permit, until they had passed thegates and gained the wall of the meadow. Looking over it, a remarkablesight presented itself to their eyes.

  Fetlock deep in the lush grass there stood a magnificent horse, such ahorse as a sculptor or a soldier might thrill to see. His color was alight chestnut, with mane and tail of a more tawny tint. Seventeen handshigh, with a barrel and haunches which bespoke tremendous strength, hefined down to the most delicate lines of dainty breed in neck and crestand shoulder. He was indeed a glorious sight as he stood there, hisbeautiful body leaning back from his wide-spread and propped forelegs, his head craned high, his ears erect, his mane bristling, his rednostrils opening and shutting with wrath, and his flashing eyes turningfrom side to side in haughty menace and defiance.

  Scattered round in a respectful circle, six of the Abbey lay servantsand foresters, each holding a halter, were creeping toward him. Everynow and then, with a beautiful toss and swerve and plunge, thegreat creature would turn upon one of his would-be captors, and withoutstretched head, flying mane and flashing teeth, would chase himscreaming to the safety of the wall, while the others would closeswiftly in behind and cast their ropes in the hope of catching neck orleg, but only in their turn to be chased to the nearest refuge.

  Had two of these ropes settled upon the horse, and had their throwersfound some purchase of stump or boulder by which they could hold them,then the man's brain might have won its wonted victory over swiftnessand strength. But the brains were themselves at fault which imaginedthat one such rope would serve any purpose save to endanger the thrower.

  Yet so it was, and what might have been foreseen occurred at the verymoment of the arrival of the monks. The horse, having chased one of hisenemies to the wall, remained so long snorting his contempt over thecoping that the others were able to creep upon him from behind. Severalropes were flung, and one noose settled over the proud crest and lostitself in the waving mane. In an instant the creature had turned and themen were flying for their lives; but he who had cast the rope lingered,uncertain what use to make of his own success. That moment of doubt wasfatal. With a yell of dismay, the man saw the great creature rear abovehim. Then with a crash the fore feet fell upon him and dashed him tothe ground. He rose screaming, was hurled over once more, and lay aquivering, bleeding heap, while the savage horse, the most cruel andterrible in its anger of all creatu
res on earth, bit and shook andtrampled the writhing body.

  A loud wail of horror rose from the lines of tonsured heads whichskirted the high wall--a wail which suddenly died away into a longhushed silence, broken at last by a rapturous cry of thanksgiving and ofjoy.

  On the road which led to the old dark manor-house upon the side ofthe hill a youth had been riding. His mount was a sorry one, a weedy,shambling, long-haired colt, and his patched tunic of faded purple withstained leather belt presented no very smart appearance; yet in thebearing of the man, in the poise of his head, in his easy gracefulcarriage, and in the bold glance of his large blue eyes, there was thatstamp of distinction and of breed which would have given him a placeof his own in any assembly. He was of small stature, but his framewas singularly elegant and graceful. His face, though tanned withthe weather, was delicate in features and most eager and alert inexpression. A thick fringe of crisp yellow curls broke from under thedark flat cap which he was wearing, and a short golden beard hid theoutline of his strong square chin. One white osprey feather thrustthrough a gold brooch in the front of his cap gave a touch of grace tohis somber garb. This and other points of his attire, the short hangingmantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt whichsustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the prick spurs,would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at the first glancethe brown face set in gold and the dancing light of the quick, reckless,laughing eyes, were the one strong memory left behind.

  Such was the youth who, cracking his whip joyously, and followed by halfa score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the Tilford Lane, andthence it was that with a smile of amused contempt upon his facehe observed the comedy in the field and the impotent efforts of theservants of Waverley.

  Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy, thispassive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life. With a spring hewas off his pony, and with another he was over the stone wall and flyingswiftly across the field. Looking up from his victim, the great yellowhorse saw this other enemy approach, and spurning the prostrate, butstill writhing body with its heels, dashed at the newcomer.

  But this time there was no hasty flight, no rapturous pursuit to thewall. The little man braced himself straight, flung up his metal-headedwhip, and met the horse with a crashing blow upon the head, repeatedagain and again with every attack. In vain the horse reared and triedto overthrow its enemy with swooping shoulders and pawing hoofs. Cool,swift and alert, the man sprang swiftly aside from under the very shadowof death, and then again came the swish and thud of the unerring blowfrom the heavy handle.

  The horse drew off, glared with wonder and fury at this masterful man,and then trotted round in a circle, with mane bristling, tail streamingand ears on end, snorting in its rage and pain. The man, hardly deigningto glance at his fell neighbor, passed on to the wounded forester,raised him in his arms with a strength which could not have beenexpected in so slight a body, and carried him, groaning, to the wall,where a dozen hands were outstretched to help him over. Then, at hisleisure, the young man also climbed the wall, smiling back with coolcontempt at the yellow horse, which had come raging after him once more.

  As he sprang down, a dozen monks surrounded him to thank him or topraise him; but he would have turned sullenly away without a word had henot been stopped by Abbot John in person.

  "Nay, Squire Loring," said he, "if you be a bad friend to our Abbey, yetwe must needs own that you have played the part of a good Christian thisday, for if there is breath left in our servant's body it is to you nextto our blessed patron Saint Bernard that we owe it."

  "By Saint Paul! I owe you no good-will, Abbot John," said the young man."The shadow of your Abbey has ever fallen across the house of Loring. Asto any small deed that I may have done this day, I ask no thanks forit. It is not for you nor for your house that I have done it, but onlybecause it was my pleasure so to do."

  The Abbot flushed at the bold words, and bit his lip with vexation.

  It was the sacrist, however, who answered: "It would be more fitting andmore gracious," said he, "if you were to speak to the holy Father Abbotin a manner suited to his high rank and to the respect which is due to aPrince of the Church."

  The youth turned his bold blue eyes upon the monk, and his sunburnedface darkened with anger. "Were it not for the gown upon your back, andfor your silvering hair, I would answer you in another fashion," saidhe. "You are the lean wolf which growls ever at our door, greedy for thelittle which hath been left to us. Say and do what you will with me, butby Saint Paul! if I find that Dame Ermyntrude is baited by your ravenouspack I will beat them off with this whip from the little patch whichstill remains of all the acres of my fathers."

  "Have a care, Nigel Loring, have a care!" cried the Abbot, with fingerupraised. "Have you no fears of the law of England?"

  "A just law I fear and obey."

  "Have you no respect for Holy Church?"

  "I respect all that is holy in her. I do not respect those who grind thepoor or steal their neighbor's land."

  "Rash man, many a one has been blighted by her ban for less than youhave now said! And yet it is not for us to judge you harshly this day.You are young and hot words come easily to your lips. How fares theforester?"

  "His hurt is grievous, Father Abbot, but he will live," said a brother,looking up from the prostrate form. "With a blood-letting and anelectuary, I will warrant him sound within a month."

  "Then bear him to the hospital. And now, brother, about this terriblebeast who still gazes and snorts at us over the top of the wall asthough his thoughts of Holy Church were as uncouth as those of SquireNigel himself, what are we to do with him?"

  "Here is Franklin Aylward," said one of the brethren. "The horse washis, and doubtless he will take it back to his farm."

  But the stout red-faced farmer shook his head at the proposal. "Not I,in faith!" said he. "The beast hath chased me twice round the paddock;it has nigh slain my boy Samkin. He would never be happy till he hadridden it, nor has he ever been happy since. There is not a hind in myemploy who will enter his stall. Ill fare the day that ever I took thebeast from the Castle stud at Guildford, where they could do nothingwith it and no rider could be found bold enough to mount it! When thesacrist here took it for a fifty-shilling debt he made his own bargainand must abide by it. He comes no more to the Crooksbury farm."

  "And he stays no more here," said the Abbot. "Brother sacrist, you haveraised the Devil, and it is for you to lay it again."

  "That I will most readily," cried the sacrist. "The pittance-master canstop the fifty shillings from my very own weekly dole, and so the Abbeybe none the poorer. In the meantime here is Wat with his arbalist anda bolt in his girdle. Let him drive it to the head through this cursedcreature, for his hide and his hoofs are of more value than his wickedself."

  A hard brown old woodman who had been shooting vermin in the Abbeygroves stepped forward with a grin of pleasure. After a lifetime ofstoats and foxes, this was indeed a noble quarry which was to fallbefore him. Fitting a bolt on the nut of his taut crossbow, hehad raised it to his shoulder and leveled it at the fierce, proud,disheveled head which tossed in savage freedom at the other side ofthe wall. His finger was crooked on the spring, when a blow from a whipstruck the bow upward and the bolt flew harmless over the Abbey orchard,while the woodman shrank abashed from Nigel Loring's angry eyes.

  "Keep your bolts for your weasels!" said he. "Would you take life from acreature whose only fault is that its spirit is so high that it hasmet none yet who dare control it? You would slay such a horse as a kingmight be proud to mount, and all because a country franklin, or a monk,or a monk's varlet, has not the wit nor the hands to master him?"

  The sacrist turned swiftly on the Squire. "The Abbey owes you anoffering for this day's work, however rude your words may be," said he."If you think so much of the horse, you may desire to own it. If I am topay for it, then with the holy Abbot's permission it is in my gift and Ibestow it freely upon you."


  The Abbot plucked at his subordinate's sleeve. "Bethink you, brothersacrist," he whispered, "shall we not have this man's blood upon ourheads?"

  "His pride is as stubborn as the horse's, holy father," the sacristanswered, his gaunt fact breaking into a malicious smile. "Man or beast,one will break the other and the world will be the better for it. If youforbid me--"

  "Nay, brother, you have bought the horse, and you may have the bestowalof it."

  "Then I give it--hide and hoofs, tail and temper--to Nigel Loring, andmay it be as sweet and as gentle to him as he hath been to the Abbot ofWaverley!"

  The sacrist spoke aloud amid the tittering of the monks, for the manconcerned was out of earshot. At the first words which had shown him theturn which affairs had taken he had run swiftly to the spot where he hadleft his pony. From its mouth he removed the bit and the stout bridlewhich held it. Then leaving the creature to nibble the grass by thewayside he sped back whence he came.

  "I take your gift, monk," said he, "though I know well why it is thatyou give it. Yet I thank you, for there are two things upon earth forwhich I have ever yearned, and which my thin purse could never buy.The one is a noble horse, such a horse as my father's son should havebetwixt his thighs, and here is the one of all others which I would havechosen, since some small deed is to be done in the winning of him, andsome honorable advancement to be gained. How is the horse called?"

  "Its name," said the franklin, "is Pommers. I warn you, young sir, thatnone may ride him, for many have tried, and the luckiest is he who hasonly a staved rib to show for it."

  "I thank you for your rede," said Nigel, "and now I see that thisis indeed a horse which I would journey far to meet. I am your man,Pommers, and you are my horse, and this night you shall own it or I willnever need horse again. My spirit against thine, and God hold thy spirithigh, Pommers, so that the greater be the adventure, and the more hopeof honor gained!"

  While he spoke the young Squire had climbed on to the top of thewall and stood there balanced, the very image of grace and spirit andgallantry, his bridle hanging from one hand and his whip grasped in theother. With a fierce snort, the horse made for him instantly, and hiswhite teeth flashed as he snapped; but again a heavy blow from theloaded whip caused him to swerve, and even at the instant of the swerve,measuring the distance with steady eyes, and bending his supple body forthe spring, Nigel bounded into the air and fell with his legs astridethe broad back of the yellow horse. For a minute, with neither saddlenor stirrups to help him, and the beast ramping and rearing like a madthing beneath him, he was hard pressed to hold his own. His legs werelike two bands of steel welded on to the swelling arches of the greathorse's ribs, and his left hand was buried deep in the tawny mane.

  Never had the dull round of the lives of the gentle brethren of Waverleybeen broken by so fiery a scene. Springing to right and swooping toleft, now with its tangled wicked head betwixt its forefeet, and nowpawing eight feet high in the air, with scarlet, furious nostrils andmaddened eyes, the yellow horse was a thing of terror and of beauty. Butthe lithe figure on his back, bending like a reed in the wind to everymovement, firm below, pliant above, with calm inexorable face, andeyes which danced and gleamed with the joy of contest, still held itsmasterful place for all that the fiery heart and the iron muscles of thegreat beast could do.

  Once a long drone of dismay rose from the monks, as rearing higher andhigher yet a last mad effort sent the creature toppling over backwardupon its rider. But, swift and cool, he had writhed from under it ereit fell, spurned it with his foot as it rolled upon the earth, and thenseizing its mane as it rose swung himself lightly on to its back oncemore. Even the grim sacrist could not but join the cheer, as Pommers,amazed to find the rider still upon his back, plunged and curveted downthe field.

  But the wild horse only swelled into a greater fury. In the sullen gloomof its untamed heart there rose the furious resolve to dash the lifefrom this clinging rider, even if it meant destruction to beast and man.With red, blazing eyes it looked round for death. On three sides thefive-virgate field was bounded by a high wall, broken only at one spotby a heavy four-foot wooden gate. But on the fourth side was a lowgray building, one of the granges of the Abbey, presenting a long flankunbroken by door or window. The horse stretched itself into a gallop,and headed straight for that craggy thirty-foot wall. He would break inred ruin at the base of it if he could but dash forever the life of thisman, who claimed mastery over that which had never found its master yet.

  The great haunches gathered under it, the eager hoofs drummed the grass,as faster and still more fast the frantic horse bore himself and hisrider toward the wall. Would Nigel spring off? To do so would be to bendhis will to that of the beast beneath him. There was a better way thanthat. Cool, quick and decided, the man swiftly passed both whip andbridle into the left hand which still held the mane. Then with the righthe slipped his short mantle from his shoulders and lying forward alongthe creature's strenuous, rippling back he cast the flapping cloth overthe horse's eyes.

  The result was but too successful, for it nearly brought about thedownfall of the rider. When those red eyes straining for death weresuddenly shrouded in unexpected darkness the amazed horse propped on itsforefeet and came to so dead a stop that Nigel was shot forward on toits neck and hardly held himself by his hair-entwined hand. Ere he hadslid back into position the moment of danger had passed, for the horse,its purpose all blurred in its mind by this strange thing which hadbefallen, wheeled round once more, trembling in every fiber, and tossingits petulant head until at last the mantle had been slipped from itseyes and the chilling darkness had melted into the homely circle ofsunlit grass once more.

  But what was this new outrage which had been inflicted upon it? What wasthis defiling bar of iron which was locked hard against its mouth? Whatwere these straps which galled the tossing neck, this band which spannedits chest? In those instants of stillness ere the mantle had beenplucked away Nigel had lain forward, had slipped the snaffle between thechamping teeth, and had deftly secured it.

  Blind, frantic fury surged in the yellow horse's heart once more at thisnew degradation, this badge of serfdom and infamy. His spirit rose highand menacing at the touch. He loathed this place, these people, all andeverything which threatened his freedom. He would have done with themforever; he would see them no more. Let him away to the uttermost partsof the earth, to the great plains where freedom is. Anywhere overthe far horizon where he could get away from the defiling bit and theinsufferable mastery of man.

  He turned with a rush, and one magnificent deer-like bound carried himover the four-foot gate. Nigel's hat had flown off, and his yellow curlsstreamed behind him as he rose and fell in the leap. They were in thewater-meadow now, and the rippling stream twenty feet wide gleamed infront of them running down to the main current of the Wey. The yellowhorse gathered his haunches under him and flew over like an arrow. Hetook off from behind a boulder and cleared a furze-bush on the fartherside. Two stones still mark the leap from hoof-mark to hoof-mark, andthey are eleven good paces apart. Under the hanging branch of the greatoak-tree on the farther side (that Quercus Tilfordiensis ordiensis isstill shown as the bound of the Abby's immediate precincts) the greathorse passed. He had hoped to sweep off his rider, but Nigel sank lowon the heaving back with his face buried in the flying mane. The roughbough rasped him rudely, but never shook his spirit nor his grip.Rearing, plunging and struggling, Pommers broke through the saplinggrove and was out on the broad stretch of Hankley Down.

  And now came such a ride as still lingers in the gossip of the lowlycountry folk and forms the rude jingle of that old Surrey ballad, nownearly forgotten, save for the refrain:

  The Doe that sped on Hinde Head, The Kestril on the winde, And Nigel on the Yellow Horse Can leave the world behinde.

  Before them lay a rolling ocean of dark heather, knee-deep, swelling inbillow on billow up to the clear-cut hill before them. Above stretchedone unbroken arch of peaceful
blue, with a sun which was sinking downtoward the Hampshire hills. Through the deep heather, down the gullies,over the watercourses, up the broken slopes, Pommers flew, his greatheart bursting with rage, and every fiber quivering at the indignitieswhich he had endured.

  And still, do what he would, the man clung fast to his heaving sides andto his flying mane, silent, motionless, inexorable, letting him do whathe would, but fixed as Fate upon his purpose. Over Hankley Down, throughThursley Marsh, with the reeds up to his mud-splashed withers, onward upthe long slope of the Headland of the Hinds, down by the Nutcombe Gorge,slipping, blundering, bounding, but never slackening his fearful speed,on went the great yellow horse. The villagers of Shottermill heard thewild clatter of hoofs, but ere they could swing the ox-hide curtains oftheir cottage doors horse and rider were lost amid the high bracken ofthe Haslemere Valley. On he went, and on, tossing the miles behind hisflying hoofs. No marsh-land could clog him, no hill could hold him back.Up the slope of Linchmere and the long ascent of Fernhurst he thunderedas on the level, and it was not until he had flown down the incline ofHenley Hill, and the gray castle tower of Midhurst rose over the coppicein front, that at last the eager outstretched neck sank a little onthe breast, and the breath came quick and fast. Look where he would inwoodland and on down, his straining eyes could catch no sign of thoseplains of freedom which he sought.

  And yet another outrage! It was bad that this creature shouldstill cling so tight upon his back, but now he would even go to theintolerable length of checking him and guiding him on the way that hewould have him go. There was a sharp pluck at his mouth, and his headwas turned north once more. As well go that way as another, but the manwas mad indeed if he thought that such a horse as Pommers was at theend of his spirit or his strength. He would soon show him that he wasunconquered, if it strained his sinews or broke his heart to do so. Backthen he flew up the long, long ascent. Would he ever get to the end ofit? Yet he would not own that he could go no farther while the man stillkept his grip. He was white with foam and caked with mud. His eyes weregorged with blood, his mouth open and gasping, his nostrils expanded,his coat stark and reeking. On he flew down the long Sunday Hill untilhe 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 reedyslime with the heavy black mud still clinging to his fetlocks, he atlast eased down with sobbing breath and slowed the tumultuous gallop toa canter.

  Oh, crowning infamy! Was there no limit to these degradations? He was nolonger even to choose his own pace. Since he had chosen to gallop so farat 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 hisshoulder. He bounded his own height in the air at the pain and the shameof it. Then, forgetting his weary limbs, forgetting his panting, reekingsides, forgetting everything save this intolerable insult and theburning 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 limbstrembled beneath him, and yet again he strove to ease his pace, only tobe driven onward by the cruel spur and the falling lash. He was blindand giddy with fatigue.

  He saw no longer where he placed his feet, he cared no longer whither hewent, 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. ThroughThursley village he passed, his eyes straining in his agony, his heartbursting within him, and he had won his way to the crest of ThursleyDown, 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 theyellow horse sank among the heather. So sudden was the fall that Nigelflew forward over his shoulder, and beast and man lay prostrate andgasping while the last red rim of the sun sank behind Butser and thefirst 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 anddown the foam-flecked face. The red eye rolled up at him; but it waswonder 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 thrusthis nose into the hollow of his hand. It was enough. It was the end ofthe contest, the acceptance of new conditions by a chivalrous foe from achivalrous victor.

  "You are my horse, Pommers," Nigel whispered, and he laid his cheekagainst the craning head. "I know you, Pommers, and you know me, andwith the help of Saint Paul we shall teach some other folk to know usboth. Now let us walk together as far as this moorland pond, for indeedI wot not whether it is you or I who need the water most."

  And so it was that some belated monks of Waverley passing homeward fromthe outer farms saw a strange sight which they carried on with them sothat it reached that very night the ears both of sacrist and of Abbot.For, as they passed through Tilford they had seen horse and man walkingside by side and head by head up the manor-house lane. And when theyhad raised their lanterns on the pair it was none other than the youngSquire himself who was leading home, as a shepherd leads a lamb, thefearsome yellow horse of Crooksbury.