As De Ferussat rebounded from the balustrade, his steed, naturally nervous at this unusual experience, started aside, and the reins were jerked from the Frenchman’s grip. In an instant the young officer threw himself into the vacant saddle, and as the horse, now thoroughly alarmed, dashed madly forward, its new rider just succeeded in grasping the reins short at the neck, and clung to his seat by the sheer muscular grip of his knees. The whole incident had passed rapidly, but General Chabot, with the readiness of an old campaigner, bent forward to clutch the near rein of the maddened horse. His own horse swerving at the critical moment, he missed his grip and himself almost overbalanced, and though he at once spurred his charger into a gallop, endeavouring to unbutton the holsters containing his pistols, the fugitive had gained at least twenty yards before the pursuer’s horse settled into its stride. Jack almost shouted with glee as he lay forward on his horse’s neck and got his feet into the stirrups, expecting every moment that a hail of bullets would come flying after him. But, hearing the clatter of the general’s horse behind, he lifted himself and laughed, and began to hum a song he remembered Shirley was fond of: "Oh, who will o’er the downs so free, Oh, who will with me ride, Oh, who will up and follow me—" The general was up and following him, but he cared nothing for that. Not a shade of misgiving crossed his exultation. While the general pursued him he was safe. The group of French soldiers in the square had rushed to their arms, but were unable to fire, for General Chabot was between them and the fugitive. Colonel de Ferussat, purple to the verge of apoplexy, was spluttering with rage and pain, intensified by the evident delight of the Spanish officers, who, forgetting that they were in the man’s power, were openly laughing at him. In the street, meanwhile, soldiers and civilians alike cleared out of the way of the dashing horsemen, not realizing at first what had happened. When they did understand, Jack was beyond their reach. He could not stop to choose his course. He urged his steed straight along the road, out at the north gate of the town, into the country of vineyard and olive grove, gaining on his pursuer, even steadying his horse somewhat when he found that the beautiful and spirited animal had the heels of the general’s charger. Chabot must have recognized this, but with dogged pertinacity he held on for nearly two miles, only desisting from the chase when he found that his horse was failing. Then he discharged his pistol; the shot flew wide. Jack turned on the saddle and swept off his sombrero in ironical salutation; and as the Frenchman drew rein, Jack jogged the heaving flanks of his steed with his spurless boots, and cantered gaily off into the dusk. *CHAPTER XXX* *The Whip Hand*