They drove on silently between the rows of quaint old houses, till they got to the crest of the hill coming down towards Holloway. “The horses seem steady enough now,” said Gwen. “Yes, they’re all right—just as well too. Did you ever see such a crowd!—Phew!” There was a rustle and a flying glimmer of white from a costermonger’s cart coming slowly up the hill behind a jaded ass. It was the _Echo_ of the day before, caught by a sudden flickering breeze, and carried fantastically to and fro right under the horses’ noses; they threw up their heads and sniffed angrily, but Strange had them well in hand and soothed their terror gently, and being no fools the brutes were just realizing the causelessness of their fright, when a demon got into the breeze, caught the paper in its clutches, and with a rushing swirl of leaves, dashed it into Hengist’s two eyes right between the blinkers. Blinded, tickled, irritated to madness, the horse lashed out wildly, plunged forward, carrying Horsa with him, and tore down the hill. They were beyond restraint now, it was only possible to swing them by sheer strength out of destruction’s way. It was a touch-and-go game from the first. Just as they got very nearly down the hill, there was a sudden jarring click. Gwen saw her husband’s leg drop sharply. He turned one look on her. “Brake’s gone!” he shouted, sawing the mouths of the frantic horses till the veins stood out like cords on his wrists. He would have felt the whole thing less hideous and awful if even then he could have seen one sign of failing courage in his wife, if she had once clutched him, once cried out, once showed an atom of weak womanhood. But in all the mad tumultuous race with death her calm, inscrutable, half-scornful face loomed on him, watching each movement of his, and not one shade paler. She was more beautiful and less of a woman than she had ever been in all her life. They were just at the twist of the hill, the traffic was denser than ever, the carriage swayed wildly, and the shrill screaming of women was giving the last touch to the horses’ madness. The final crash was upon them. “One last experiment,” thought Strange, laughing aloud in a grim spasm of humour. “Gwen!” he shouted, “will you kiss me once, as women kiss men?” She might have done it without that clause, she changed colour for the first time, her mouth twitched, she loosed her hands from their half-mechanical grasp on the seat, and looked in her husband’s face laughing above her. No tears ever held the pathos of that laugh. “Why can’t I kiss him and be done with it?” she thought wildly. “Truth or lie, what matters it now!” She moved forward slightly with curved lips, then she looked again, one little look, but it was enough, her hands fell limp into her lap, and she shivered from head to foot. “No!” she shouted, her eyes aflame, “if that had been possible I shouldn’t have left it until now.” Then she pulled herself together to show a decent front to death.