Behind the mare was plainly audible the cadence of a swiftly trotting horse. "D'you hear anything?" said Guj. "No--nothing but the regular triplet," said Hordene; and he lied when he answered. Guj looked at him keenly and said nothing. Two or three months passed and Hordene was perplexed to see his old property running, and running well, under the curious title of "_Sleipner_--late _Thurinda_." He consulted the Great Major, who said: "I don't know a horse called _Sleipner_, but I know _of_ one. He was a northern bred, and belonged to Odin." "A mythological beast?" "Exactly. Like _Bucephalus_ and the rest of 'em. He was a great horse. I wish I had some of his get in my stable." "Why?" "Because he had eight legs. When he had used up one set, he let down the other four to come up the straight on. Stewards were lenient in those days. _Now_ it's all you can do to get a crock with _three_ sound legs." Hordene cursed the red-haired Guj in his heart for finding out the mare's peculiarity. Then he cursed the dead man Jale for his ridiculous interference with a free gift. "If it was given--it was given," said Hordene, "and he has no right to come messing about after it." When Guj and he next met, he enquired tenderly after _Thurinda_. The red-haired subaltern, impassive as usual, answered: "I've shot her." "Well--you know your own affairs best," said Hordene. "You've given yourself away," said Guj. "What makes you think I shot a sound horse? She might have been bitten by a mad dog, or lamed." "You didn't say that." "No, I didn't, because I've a notion that you knew what was wrong with her." "Wrong with her! She was as sound as a bell----" "I know that. Don't pretend to misunderstand. You'll believe _me_, and I'll believe _you_ in this show; but no one else will believe _us_. That mare was a bally nightmare." "Go on," said Hordene. "I stuck the noise of the other horse as long as I could, and called her _Sleipner_ on the strength of it. _Sleipner_ was a stallion, but that's a detail. When it got to interfering with every race I rode it was more than I could stick. I took her off racing, and, on my honour, since that time I've been nearly driven out of my mind by a grey and nutmeg pony. It used to trot round my quarters at night, fool about the Mall, and graze about the compound. You _know_ that pony. It isn't a pony to catch or ride or hit, is it?" "No," said Hordene; "I've seen it." "So I shot _Thurinda_; that was a thousand rupees out of my pocket. And old Stiffer, who's got his new crematorium in full blast, cremated her. I say, what _was_ the matter with the mare? Was she bewitched?"