The hunt had passed to the left--swept on with the inexorable determination of foxhounds running a burning scent: already there was not a soul to be seen, for only the hard riders had come this way--the less keen had taken to a convenient lane. George was off the grey, and down in the ditch, as quick as thought. If he could only get the horse lengthways, he might manage to drag his rider from under him, but this was impossible, single-handed. It looked a serious business, and there was no time to be lost. “Come down, Cuckoo, like a good girl,” he said coaxingly, “come down, and give me a hand. There is no fear of you. I’ll take care of that.” Cuckoo peered down with a ghastly face, and saw the struggling iron shoes, the blood upon her brother’s gloves, and heard half-stifled moans of anguish. “I daren’t, George. Oh, I daren’t!” and she began to cry. “I dare, I am not afraid,” said Betty, scrambling hastily into the ditch beside him; “only tell me what I am to do.” “I’ll manage the horse, if you can move the man,” returned George. “Just put your hands under his arms, very firmly, and hold fast, and when I give you the word, pull with all your strength--_now_.” The experiment proved successful. Mr. Moore was luckily a very light weight, and George Holroyd was a strong man, otherwise he would have remained much longer at the bottom of the ditch; but as it was, after several attempts, these two good Samaritans got him out between them, and laid him on the grass--a truly ghastly object; his head, which had come in contact with a stone, was bleeding profusely; his white face was streaked with blood, and he seemed to be insensible. George took off his coat, and folded it up into a sort of pillow for the sufferer, then he produced his flask, and endeavoured to pour some of its contents between his closed teeth. “He is dead! Ghosty Moore is dead,” shrieked Cuckoo, and she ran up the field giving vent to a series of agonising screams; she had no nerves whatever, and the sight of blood made her sick and terrified. Yes, even the bold and saucy Cuckoo! she was as useless as the grey, who, with streaming reins, grazed greedily along the hedge row, sublimely indifferent to the fate of his companion, who was struggling in the adjacent ditch. Presently George went down and righted him, and got him out, a limping terrified spectacle, and then he said to Betty, who had been trying to bind up the wounded man’s head with their handkerchiefs: “Some one must go for help at once, either you or I!” “There are no cottages near this, and Ballingoole is four miles off. You had better go; you will go faster,” she returned promptly. “But I don’t know the way,” he replied. “There is a lane at this gate, and if the gate is locked, try a corner, there’s sure to be a gap, and then turn to the left, and keep straight out.”