All too late to have any effect were his last words; before they were uttered, Laurence had turned Sir Launcelot's head, taken a short sharp circling gallop to get him into pace, and then crammed him straight at the hedge. Spurrier says that to his dying day he shall never forget that jump; and he often talks about it now when he is giving a gentleman a glass of sherry, after a "show" just previous to the hunting season. Pale as death, with his hat over his brows, and his hands down on the horse's withers, sat Laurence; and just as Sir Launcelot rose at the leap, he dealt him a cut with a heavy whip which he had snatched out of Spurrier's hand The gallant animal rose splendidly, cleared posts and rails, crashed through the quickset, and came thundering into the lane below. Neither rider nor horse were prepared for the deep drop; the latter on grounding bungled awkwardly on to his knees; but Laurence had him up in an instant, and left him blown and panting, when at the moment the grays came in sight. Lady Mitford was still in the carriage, but had apparently fainted, for she lay back motionless, while the reins were dragging in the road. Laurence thought there was yet a chance of stopping the ponies, upon whom the pace was evidently beginning to tell severely, but, as they neared a gate leading to a portion of the outbuildings, where on their first purchase by Mr. Saunderson they had been stabled, the grays, recollecting the landmarks, wheeled suddenly to the left and made for the gate. The carriage ran up an embankment and instantly overturned; one of the ponies fell, and commenced lashing out in all directions; the other, pulled across the pole, was plunging and struggling in wild attempts to free itself. The men who had been signalled to by Spurrier were by this time issuing from the lodge-gates, and making towards the spot; but long before they reached it, a tall man with a flowing black beard had sprung in among the _débris_, regardless of hoofs flying in all directions, and had dragged therefrom the senseless form of Lady Mitford. "What is the matter? Where am I?" "You're at my farm, Lady Mitford," said Mr. Saunderson, advancing with that old-fashioned courtesy which he always assumed when dealing with ladies; "and there's nothing the matter, thank God! though you've had a bad accident with the ponies, which seem to have run away; and I may say you owe your life to Colonel Alsager, who rescued you at the peril of his own." She looked round with a faint smile at Laurence, who was standing at the foot of the sofa on which she lay, and was about to speak, when Laurence lifted his hand deprecatingly: "Not a word, please, Lady Mitford; not a single word. What I did was simply nothing, and our friend Mr. Saunderson exaggerates horribly. Yes, one word--what of Sir Charles?" "He has not heard of it? He must not be told." "No, of course not. What we want to know is whether he started for the drive with you."