Eustace was not hurt. He had kicked his feet free of the stirrups before he slipped off, and the ground was soft. The mare had avoided touching him with her feet as she sped off, and, save for the humiliation of the fall, and the fear lest the horse should be hurt, Eustace cared little for the accident. He could no longer see the flying steed. The ridge of swelling down hid her from him; but he picked himself up and wondered what he should do next, and whether the creature would find her way home or should be pursued, for she had not headed for her stable, but had gone tearing away over the green turf in a diagonal direction. Brushing the traces of his accident from his clothes, Eustace slowly mounted the low ridge, and then to his relief saw a horseman cantering towards him up the opposite side. A second glance told him that the horseman was none other than Saul Tresithny, and that he was mounted upon the runaway mare, whom he had evidently captured before she had had time to do herself a mischief. Two minutes later Saul had come to a standstill beside him, and was on his own feet in a twinkling. “I hope you are not hurt, sir,” he said shortly. “Not at all, thank you--only humiliated. I did not mean to let her have her own way, but she took it in spite of me. How did you manage to catch her? And how come you to be so good a rider? You manage her far better than I do.” “I broke her in, you see, sir,” answered Saul, who was stroking the glossy foam-flecked neck of the beautiful creature, whilst she dropped her nose into his palm, and was evincing every sign of satisfaction in the meeting. “His Grace bought her from Farmer Teazel. She was bred on these downs, and I had the breaking of her. She’ll make a capital hunter one of these days; but it’s not every rider she’ll let mount her, nor yet keep mounted when once they’ve been on her back. She’ll give you some trouble, I expect, sir, the next time you try to ride her. But Lady Bride can guide her with a silken thread. She took to her ladyship from the first moment she mounted her.” “And she seems to take to you too. I think your name is Tresithny, isn’t it? You are grandson to the gardener at the castle?” “Yes, sir,” answered Saul, and said no more, holding the stirrup for Eustace to mount, but without anything the least servile or obsequious in his attitude. The young man noted also in his speech the absence of the vernacular peculiarities that characterised all the ordinary rustics of the place. Saul’s voice was soft, and his speech had an intonation that bespoke him a native of these parts, but that was all. Just as it was with the grandfather, so it was with the grandson: they could put off the dialect when they chose, and use it when they chose. Abner had early taught his young charge the same purity of diction as he had acquired himself, and in speaking to his superiors Saul adopted it naturally.