III. THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY
In those simple times there was a great wonder and mystery in
life. Man walked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close
above his head, and Hell below his very feet. God's visible hand
was everywhere, in the rainbow and the comet, in the thunder and
the wind. The Devil too raged openly upon the earth; he skulked
behind the hedge-rows in the gloaming; he laughed loudly in the
night-time; he clawed the dying sinner, pounced on the unbaptized
babe, and twisted the limbs of the epileptic. A foul fiend 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 steep
and narrow track. How could one doubt these things, when Pope and
priest and scholar and King were all united in believing them,
with no single voice of question in the whole wide world?
Every book read, every picture seen, every tale heard from nurse
or mother, all taught the same lesson. And as a man traveled
through the world his faith would grow the firmer, for go where he
would there were the endless shrines of the saints, each with its
holy relic in the center, and around it the tradition of incessant
miracles, with stacks of deserted crutches and silver votive
hearts to prove them. At every turn 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 terrible
rather than incredible to those whom he addressed. The Abbot's
ruddy face paled for a moment, it is true, but he plucked the
crucifix from his desk and rose valiantly to his feet.
"Lead me to him!" said he. "Show me the foul fiend who dares to
lay his grip upon brethren of the holy house of Saint Bernard!
Run down to my chaplain, brother! Bid him bring the exorcist with
him, and also the blessed box of relics, and the bones of Saint
James from under the altar! With these and a contrite and humble
heart we may show front to all the powers of darkness."
But the sacrist was of a more critical turn of mind. He clutched
the monk's arm with a grip which left its five purple spots for
many a day to come.
"Is this the way to enter the Abbot's own chamber, without knock
or reverence, or so much as a `Pax vobiscum'?" said he sternly.
"You were wont to be our gentlest novice, of lowly carriage in
chapter, devout in psalmody and strict in the cloister. Pull your
wits together and answer me straightly. In what form has the foul
fiend appeared, and how has he done this grievous scathe to our
brethren? Have you seen him with your own eyes, or do you repeat
from hearsay? Speak, man, or you stand on the penance-stool in
the chapter-house this very hour!"
Thus adjured, the frightened monk grew calmer in his bearing,
though his white lips and his startled eyes, with the gasping of
his breath, told of his inward tremors.
"If it please you, holy father, and you, reverend sacrist, it came
about in this way. James the subprior, and Brother John and I had
spent our day from sext onward on Hankley, cutting bracken for the
cow-houses. We were coming back over the five-virgate field, and
the holy subprior was telling us a saintly tale from the life of
Saint Gregory, when there came a sudden sound like a rushing
torrent, and the foul fiend sprang over the high wall which skirts
the water-meadow and rushed upon us with the speed of the wind.
The lay brother he struck to the ground and trampled into the
mire. Then, seizing the good subprior in his teeth, he rushed
round the field, swinging him as though he were a fardel of old
clothes.
"Amazed at such a sight, I stood without movement and had said a
credo and 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 before his teeth had found my leg, and he had
torn away the whole back skirt of my gown." As he spoke he turned
and gave corroboration to his story by the 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
of fire and the teeth of a griffin."
"A yellow horse!" The sacrist glared at the scared monk. "You
foolish brother! How will you behave when you have indeed to face
the King of Terrors himself if you can be so frightened by the
sight of a yellow horse? It is the horse of Franklin Aylward, my
father, which has been distrained by us because he owes the Abbey
fifty good shillings and can never hope to pay it. Such a horse,
they say, is not to be found betwixt this and the King's stables
at Windsor, for his sire was a Spanish destrier, 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 been said under the
shelter of his own tent. I took him in discharge of the debt, and
I ordered the varlets who had haltered him to leave him alone in
the water-meadow, for I have heard that the beast has indeed a
most evil spirit, and has killed more men than one."
"It was an ill day for Waverley that you brought such a monster
within its bounds," said the Abbot. "If the subprior and Brother
John be indeed dead, then it would seem that if the horse be not
the Devil he is at least the Devil's instrument."
"Horse or Devil, holy father, I heard him shout with joy as he
trampled upon Brother John, and had you seen him tossing the
subprior as a dog shakes a rat you would perchance have felt even
as I did."
"Come then," cried the Abbot, "let us see with our own eyes what
evil has 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 at rest, for at that very moment, limping, disheveled and
mud-stained, the two sufferers were being led in amid a crowd of
sympathizing brethren. Shouts and cries from outside showed,
however, that some further drama was in progress, and both Abbot
and sacrist hastened onward as fast as the dignity of their office
would permit, until they had passed the gates and gained the wall
of the meadow. Looking over it, a remarkable sight presented
itself to their eyes.
Fetlock deep in the lush grass there stood a magnificent horse,
such a horse as a sculptor or a soldier might thrill to see. His
color was a light chestnut, with mane and tail of a more tawny
tint. Seventeen hands high, with a barrel and haunches which
bespoke tremendous strength, he fined down to the most delicate
lines of dainty breed in neck and crest and shoulder. He was
indeed a glorious sight as he stood there, his beautiful body
leaning back from his wide-spread and propped fore legs, his head
craned high, his ears erect, his mane bristling, his red nostrils
opening and shutting with wrath, and his flashing eyes turning
from side to side in haughty menace and defiance.
Scattered round in a respectful circle, six of the Abbey lay
servants and foresters, each holding a halter, were creeping
toward him. Every now and then, with a beautiful toss and swerve
and plunge, the great creature would turn upon one of his would-be
captors, and with outstretched head, flying mane and flashing
teeth, would chase him screaming to the safety of the wall, while
the others would close swiftly in behind and cast their ropes in
the hope of catching neck or leg, but only in their, turn to be
chased to the nearest refuge.
Had two of these ropes settled upon the horse, and had their
throwers found some purchase of stump or boulder by which they
could hold them, then the man's brain might have won its wonted
victory over swiftness and strength. But the brains were
themselves at fault which imagined that 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
very moment of the arrival of the monks. The horse, having chased
one of his enemies to the wall, remained so long snorting his
contempt over the coping that the others were able to creep upon
him from behind. Several ropes were flung, and one noose settled
over the proud crest and lost itself in the waving mane. In an
instant the creature had turned and the men 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 was fatal. With
a yell of dismay, the man saw the great creature rear above him.
Then with a crash the fore feet fell upon him and dashed him to
the ground. He rose screaming, was hurled over once more, and lay
a quivering, bleeding heap, while the savage horse, the most cruel
and terrible in its anger of all creatures on earth, bit and shook
and trampled the writhing body.
A loud wail of horror rose from the lines of tonsured heads which
skirted the high wall - a wail which suddenly died away into a
long hushed silence, broken at last by a rapturous cry of
thanksgiving and of joy.
On the road which led to the old dark manor-house upon the side of
the 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 with stained leather belt presented no very smart
appearance; yet in the bearing of the man, in the poise of his
head, in his easy graceful carriage, and in the bold glance of his
large blue eyes, there was that stamp of distinction and of breed
which would have given him a place of his own in any assembly. He
was of small stature, but his frame was singularly elegant and
graceful. His face, though tanned with the weather, was delicate
in features and most eager and alert in expression. A thick
fringe of crisp yellow curls broke from under the dark flat cap
which he was wearing, and a short golden beard hid the outline of
his strong square chin. One white osprey feather thrust through a
gold brooch in the front of his cap gave a touch of grace to his
somber garb. This and other points of his attire, the short
hanging mantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt
which sustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the
prick spurs, would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at
the first glance the 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 half a score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the
Tilford Lane, and thence it was that with a smile of amused
contempt upon his face he observed the comedy in the field and the
impotent efforts of the servants of Waverley.
Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy,
this passive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life. With a
spring he was off his pony, and with another he was over the stone
wall and flying swiftly across the field. Looking up from his
victim, the great yellow horse saw this other enemy approach, and
spurning the prostrate, but still writhing body with its heels,
dashed at the newcomer.
But this time there was no hasty flight, no rapturous pursuit to
the wall. The little man braced himself straight, flung up his
metal-headed whip, and met the horse with a crashing blow upon the
head, repeated again and again with every attack. In vain the
horse reared and tried to overthrow its enemy with swooping
shoulders and pawing hoofs. Cool, swift and alert, the man sprang
swiftly aside from under the very shadow of death, and then again
came the swish and thud of the unerring blow from 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
streaming and ears on end, snorting in its rage and pain. The
man, hardly deigning to glance at his fell neighbor, passed on to
the wounded forester, raised him in his arms with a strength which
could not have been expected in so slight a body, and carried him,
groaning, to the wall, where a dozen hands were outstretched to
help him over. Then, at his leisure, the young man also climbed
the wall, smiling back with cool contempt 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 to
praise him; but he would have turned sullenly away without a word
had he not been stopped by Abbot John in person.
"Nay, Squire Loring," said he, "if you be a bad friend to our
Abbey, yet we must needs own that you have played the part of a
good Christian this day, for if there is breath left in our
servant's body it is to you next to 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. As to any small deed that I may have done this
day, I ask no thanks for it. It is not for you nor for your house
that I have done it, but only because 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 and more gracious," said he, "if you were to speak to the
holy Father Abbot in a manner suited to his high rank and to the
respect which is due to a Prince of the Church."
The youth turned his bold blue eyes upon the monk, and his
sunburned face darkened with anger. "Were it not for the gown
upon your back, and for your silvering hair, I would answer you in
another fashion," said he. "You are the lean wolf which growls
ever at our door, greedy for the little which hath been left to
us. Say and do what you will with me, but by Saint Paul! if I
find that Dame Ermyntrude is baited by your ravenous pack I will
beat them off with this whip from the little patch which still
remains of all the acres of my fathers."
"Have a care, Nigel Loring, have a care!" cried the Abbot, with
finger upraised. "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 the poor or steal their neighbor's land."
"Rash man, many a one has been blighted by her ban for less than
you have 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 the forester?"
"His hurt is grievous, Father Abbot, but he will live," said a
brother, looking up from the prostrate form. " With a
blood-letting and an electuary, I will warrant him sound within a
month."
"Then bear him to the hospital. And now, brother, about this
terrible beast who still gazes and snorts at us over the top of
the wall as though his thoughts of Holy Church were as uncouth as
those of Squire Nigel himself, what are we to do with him?"
"Here is Franklin Aylward," said one of the brethren. "The horse
was his, 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 had ridden it, nor has he ever been happy since.
There is not a hind in my employ who will enter his stall. Ill
fare the day that ever I took the beast from the Castle stud at
Guildford, where they could do nothing with it and no rider could
be found bold enough to mount it! When the sacrist here took it
for a fifty-shilling debt he made his own bargain and must abide
by it. He comes no more to the Crooksbury farm."
"And he stays no more here," said the Abbot. "Brother sacrist,
you have raised the Devil, and it is for you to lay it again."
"That I will most readily," cried the sacrist. "The pittance-
master can stop the fifty shillings from my very own weekly dole,
and so the Abbey be none the poorer. In the meantime here is Wat
with his arbalist and a bolt in his girdle. Let him drive it to
the head through this cursed creature, for his hide and his hoofs
are of more value than his wicked self."
A hard brown old woodman who had been shooting vermin in the Abbey
groves stepped forward with a grin of pleasure. After a lifetime
of stoats and foxes, this was indeed a noble quarry which was to
fall before him. Fitting a bolt on the nut of his taut crossbow,
he had raised it to his shoulder and leveled it at the fierce,
proud, disheveled head which tossed in savage freedom at the other
side of the wall. His finger was crooked on the spring, when a
blow from a whip struck 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 a creature whose only fault is that its spirit is so high
that it has met none yet who dare control it? You would slay such
a horse as a king might 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 an
offering 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 to pay for it, then with the holy Abbot's
permission it is in my gift and I bestow it freely upon you."
The Abbot plucked at his subordinate's sleeve. "Bethink you,
brother sacrist," he whispered, "shall we not have this man's
blood upon our heads?"
"His pride is as stubborn as the horse's, holy father," the
sacrist answered, 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 you forbid me - "
"Nay, brother, you have bought the horse, and you may have the
bestowal of it."
"Then I give it - hide and hoofs, tail and temper - to Nigel
Loring, and may it be as sweet and as gentle to him as he hath
been to the Abbot of Waverley!"
The sacrist spoke aloud amid the tittering of the monks, for the
man concerned was out of earshot. At the first words which had
shown him the turn which affairs had taken he had run swiftly to
the spot where he had left his pony. From its mouth he removed
the bit and the stout bridle which held it. Then leaving the
creature to nibble the grass by the wayside he sped back whence he
came.
"I take your gift, monk," said he, "though I know well why it is
that you give it. Yet I thank you, for there are two things upon
earth for which 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 have betwixt his thighs, and here is the one of all
others which I would have chosen, since some small deed is to be
done in the winning of him, and some honorable advancement to be
gained. How is the horse called?"
"Its name," said the franklin, "is Pommers. I warn you, young
sir, that none may ride him, for many have tried, and the luckiest
is he who has only a staved rib to show for it."
"I thank you for your rede," said Nigel, "and now I see that this
is 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 will never need horse again. My spirit against thine, and
God hold thy spirit high, Pommers, so that the greater be the
adventure, and the more hope of honor gained!"
While he spoke the young Squire had climbed on to the top of the
wall and stood there balanced, the very image of grace and spirit
and gallantry, his bridle hanging from one hand and his whip
grasped in the other. With a fierce snort, the horse made for him
instantly, and his white teeth flashed as he snapped; but again a
heavy blow from the loaded whip caused him to swerve, and even at
the instant of the swerve, measuring the distance with steady
eyes, and bending his supple body for the spring, Nigel bounded
into the air and fell with his legs astride the broad back of the
yellow horse. For a minute, with neither saddle nor stirrups to
help him, and the beast ramping and rearing like a mad thing
beneath him, he was hard pressed to hold his own. His legs were
like two bands of steel welded on to the swelling arches of the
great horse'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
Waverley been broken by so fiery a scene. Springing to right and
swooping to left, now with its tangled wicked head betwixt its
forefeet, and now pawing eight feet high in the air, with scarlet,
furious nostrils and maddened eyes, the yellow horse was a thing
of terror and of beauty. But the lithe figure on his back,
bending like a reed in the wind to every movement, firm below,
pliant above, with calm inexorable face, and eyes which danced and
gleamed with the joy of contest, still held its masterful place
for all that the fiery heart and the iron muscles of the great
beast could do.
Once a long drone of dismay rose from the monks, as rearing higher
and higher yet a last mad effort sent the creature toppling over
backward upon its rider. But, swift and cool, he had writhed from
under it ere it fell, spurned it with his foot as it rolled upon
the earth, and then seizing its mane as it rose swung himself
lightly on to its back once more. Even the grim sacrist could not
but join the cheer, as Pommers, amazed to find the rider still
upon his back, plunged and curveted down the field.
But the wild horse only swelled into a greater fury. In the
sullen gloom of its untamed heart there rose the furious resolve
to dash the life from this clinging rider, even if it meant
destruction to beast and man. With red, blazing eyes it looked
round for death. On three sides the five-virgate field was
bounded by a high wall, broken only at one spot by a heavy
four-foot wooden gate. But on the fourth side was a low gray
building, one of the granges of the Abbey, presenting a long flank
unbroken by door or window. The horse stretched itself into a
gallop, and headed straight for that craggy thirty-foot wall. He
would break in red ruin at the base of it if he could but dash
forever the life of this man, 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 his rider toward the wall. Would Nigel spring off?
To do so would be to bend his will to that of the beast beneath
him. There was a better way than that. Cool, quick and decided,
the man swiftly passed both whip and bridle into the left hand
which still held the mane. Then with the right he slipped his
short mantle from his shoulders and lying forward along the
creature's strenuous, rippling back he cast the flapping cloth
over the horse's eyes.
The result was but too successful, for it nearly brought about the
downfall of the rider. When those red eyes straining for death
were suddenly shrouded in unexpected darkness the amazed horse
propped on its forefeet and came to so dead a stop that Nigel was
shot forward on to its neck and hardly held himself by his
hair-entwined hand. Ere he had slid back into position the moment
of danger had passed, for the horse, its purpose all blurred in
its mind by this strange thing which had befallen, wheeled round
once more, trembling in every fiber, and tossing its petulant head
until at last the mantle had been slipped from its eyes and the
chilling darkness had melted into the homely circle of sunlit
grass once more.
But what was this new outrage which had been inflicted upon it?
What was this defiling bar of iron which was locked hard against
its mouth? What were these straps which galled the tossing neck,
this band which spanned its chest? In those instants of stillness
ere the mantle had been plucked away Nigel had lain forward, had
slipped the snaffle between the champing teeth, and had deftly
secured it.
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. The rough bough rasped him rudely, but never shook
his spirit nor his grip. Rearing, plunging and struggling,
Pommers broke through the sapling grove and was out on the broad
stretch of Hankley Down.
And now came such a ride as still lingers in the gossip of the
lowly country folk and forms the rude jingle of that old Surrey
ballad, now nearly 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 in billow on billow up to the clear-cut hill before them.
Above stretched one unbroken arch of peaceful blue, with a sun
which was sinking down toward the Hampshire hills. Through the
deep heather, down the gullies, over the watercourses, up the
broken slopes, Pommers flew, his great heart bursting with rage,
and every fiber quivering at the indignities which he had endured.
And still, do what he would, the man clung fast to his heaving
sides and to his flying mane, silent, motionless, inexorable,
letting him do what he would, but fixed as Fate upon his purpose.
Over Hankley Down, through Thursley Marsh, with the reeds up to
his mud-splashed withers, onward up the 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 the wild
clatter of hoofs, but ere they could swing the ox-hide curtains of
their cottage doors horse and rider were lost amid the high
bracken of the Haslemere Valley. On he went, and on, tossing the
miles behind his flying 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 thundered as on the level, and it was not
until he had flown down the incline of Henley Hill, and the gray
castle tower of Midhurst rose over the coppice in front, that at
last the eager outstretched neck sank a little on the breast, and
the breath came quick and fast. Look where he would in woodland
and on down, his straining eyes could catch no sign of those
plains of freedom which he sought.
And yet another outrage! It was bad that this creature should
still cling so tight upon his back, but now he would even go to
the intolerable length of checking him and guiding him on the way
that he would have him go. There was a sharp pluck at his mouth,
and his head was turned north once more. As well go that way as
another, but the man was mad indeed if he thought that such a
horse as Pommers was at the end of his spirit or his strength. He
would soon show him that he was unconquered, if it strained his
sinews or broke his heart to do so. Back then he flew up the
long, long ascent. 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. 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. "I know you, Pommers, and you
know me, and with the help of Saint Paul we shall teach some other
folk to know us both. Now let us walk together as far as this
moorland pond, for indeed I 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
from the outer farms saw a strange sight which they carried on
with them so that 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 walking side by side and head by head up
the manor-house lane. And when they had raised their lanterns on
the pair it was none other than the young Squire himself who was
leading home, as a shepherd leads a lamb, the fearsome yellow
horse of Crooksbury.
