Adventure stories; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Love stories; Young men -- Fiction
"Aha!" he exclaimed, evidently struck by my gloomy tone. "Is it your
damned shadow again--the blue devils? Oh, curse and confound 'em, I'll
race you t' the next milestone for ten guineas. Come on! Yoicks,
boy--hark forward! A touch o' the persuaders--and away!"
With a clatter of eager hoofs Anthony's raking sorrel sprang ahead;
but away in pursuit leapt my beautiful roan, shapely head out-thrust,
snorting, quivering, passionate for the fray.
Off and away, with the rhythmic swing and beat of swift-galloping
hoofs below and the rush of wind above--a clean, sweet wind, full of
health and sanity, to banish haunting dread and gloomy doubts of the
future together with the devils that begot them, be they blue devils,
black, or any other colour.
Faster and faster sped the road beneath me, hedges spun by, tree and
gate flitted past as, untouched by whip or spur, Wildfire fell to his
long, racing stride, an easy, stretching gallop. And ever he gained
upon the sorrel, creeping up inch by inch, crupper and withers and
nose; and thus we raced awhile, neck and neck. And now above
quick-thudding hoofs and creaking leather I heard Anthony's voice
urging his animal to fiercer effort, for slowly but surely, we were
drawing away; slowly the sorrel's great crest and flaring nostrils
fell to the rear, back and back, level with my gloved hands, my knee,
my elbow, out of my view, and presently, glancing behind, I saw
Anthony riding like a centaur--a wildly-galloping figure blurred in a
storm of dust.
But on I rode, heedless of all but the exhilaration of rushing wind,
of back-whirling hedgerows and trees, on and on until before us was a
hill up which a chaise was crawling.
Now as I watched this vehicle carelessly enough, out from the window
came a hatless head--an arm that waved imperiously, and the postboy,
glancing back, began to flog his animals to swifter gait. But
Wildfire, snorting scorn on all hills and this in particular, never so
much as checked or faltered in his long stride and thus we approached
the lumbering chaise rapidly.
We were close upon it when once again the head projected itself from
the window, but now the face was turned towards me, and in these
features I seemed to read a very lively apprehension, nay, as I drew
nearer, I saw above the bushy, scowling brows the gleam of sweat; but
on I came with loosened rein, heedless of the gentleman's threatening
look and wondering at his very evident perturbation; and now I saw
that he grasped something half-hidden in the fold of his coat that
bulked remarkably like a pistol. But all at once, as he peered at me
through the rolling smother of dust, his apprehensive expression
vanished and, next moment, his head also, and as I drew level with the
chaise, I saw him leaning back in one corner, the pistol upon his
knees, and in the other corner the form of a woman wrapped in a
pelisse and heavily veiled and who, judging by her posture, seemed
asleep.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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