It was drawn by a beautiful chestnut mare, too powerful by far for many, which struck out with her fore-feet as if measuring space and carrying the car of a god in the sky, throwing her feet as if there were no road but elastic air beneath them. The man was very tall and broad and sat upright--a wonderful thing in a countryman. His head was broad like himself, his eyes blue, and he had a long thick yellowy beard. The reins were strained taut like a yacht’s cordage, but the mare was in the hollow of his strong hand. They did not hear the hoofs till he was close, for they were on a flint heap, searching for the best to throw. “It’s Jack,” said Mark. Jack looked them very hard in the face, but it did not seem to dawn upon him who they were till he had gone past a hundred yards, and then he pulled up and beckoned. He said nothing but tapped the seat beside him. Bevis climbed up in front, Mark knelt on the seat behind--so as to look in the direction they were going. They drove two miles and Jack said nothing, then he spoke:-- “Where have you been?” “To Calais.” “Bad--bad,” said Jack. “Don’t go there again.” At the turnpike it took him three minutes to find enough to pay the toll. He had a divine mare, his harness, his cart were each perfect. Yet for all his broad shoulders he could barely muster up a groat. He pulled up presently when there were but two fields between them and the house at Longcot; he wanted to go down the lane, and they alighted to walk across the fields. After they had got down and were just turning to mount the gate, and the mare obeying the reins had likewise half turned. Jack said,-- “Hum!” “Yes,” said Mark from the top bar. “How are they all at home?” i.e. at Mark’s. “Quito well,” said Mark. “All?” said Jack again. “Frances bruised her arm--” “Much?” anxiously. “You can’t see it--her skin’s like a plum,” said Mark; “if you just pinch it it shows.” “Hum!” and Jack was gone. Late in the evening they tried hard to catch the donkey, that Mark might ride home. It was not far, but now the day was over he was very tired, so too was Bevis. Tired as they were, they chased the donkey up and down--six times as far as it was to Mark’s house--but in vain, the moke knew them of old, and was not to be charmed or cowed. He showed them his heels, and they failed. So Mark stopped and slept with Bevis, as he had done so many times before. As they lay awake in the bedroom, looking out of the window opposite at a star, half awake and half asleep, suddenly Bevis started up on his arm. “Let’s have a war,” he said. “That would be first-rate,” said Mark, “and have a great battle.” “An awful battle,” said Bevis, “the biggest and most awful ever known.” “Like Waterloo?” said Mark. “Pooh!” “Agincourt?” “Pooh!” “Mal--Mal,” said Mark, trying to think of Malplaquet. “Oh! more than anything,” said Bevis; “somebody will have to write a history about it.” “Shall we wear armour?”