With dropped jaw, my cousin was staring through the glasses as a man who is looking upon sudden death. While I watched, he lowered them, peered into the distance, clapped them again to his eyes, let them fall, glanced swiftly to right and left, shut his mouth with a snap, and made a dash for the cars.... With his hand upon Ping's door, he turned and pointed a trembling forefinger along the valley. "There's Zed," he cried. "My horse. Haven't seen him since Cambrai. Leading a team, and they're flogging him." I fancy he knew I should join him, for he never closed Ping's door. As he changed into second, I swung myself inboard. A moment later we were flying along the dusty road.... Zed had been Jonah's charger for over three years. Together, for month after month, the two had endured the rough and revelled in the smooth. They had shared misery, and they had shared ease. Together, many times, they had passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And, while the animal must have loved Jonah, my cousin was devoted to the horse. At last came Cambrai.... Jonah was shot through the knee and sent to England. And Zed--poor Zed disappeared. My cousin's efforts to trace him were superhuman. Unhappily his groom had been killed, when Jonah was wounded, and, though all manner of authorities, from the Director of Remounts downwards, had lent their official aid, though a most particular description had been circulated and special instructions issued to all the depots through which the horse might pass, to his lasting grief Jonah had never heard of Zed again. And now.... I found myself praying that he had not been mistaken. Jonah was driving like a man possessed. We tore up a rise, whipped round a bend and, coming suddenly upon a road on our right, passed it with locked wheels. The noise my cousin made, as he changed into reverse, showed that his love for Zed was overwhelming. We shot backward, stopped, stormed to the right and streaked up a shocking road at forty-five.... We flashed into a hamlet, turned at right angles, missed a waggon by an inch and flung up a frightful track towards a farm.... Then, before I knew what had happened, we had stopped dead, and Jonah's door was open and he was limping across the road. In the jaws of a rude gateway stood a waggon of stones. Harnessed to this were three sorry-looking mules and, leading them, the piteous wreck of what had been a blue roan. The latter was down--and out. For this the immediate reason was plain. The teamster, better qualified for the treadmill, had so steered his waggon that the hub of its off fore wheel had met the gatepost. This he had not observed, but, a firm believer in the omnipotency of the lash, had determined to reduce the check, whatever might be its cause, by methods of blood and iron. Either because he was the most convenient or by virtue of his status, the leader had received the brunt of the attack. That is, of course, one way of driving....