The Parson looked down at him. "Well, you're a calm chap," he said with slow delight. Better than anything in the world he loved a brave man. "I know my man," replied the other in the same still voice. He was far away in April twilight-land. The fine face, gay as the morning a few minutes since, had now a wistful evening look. The shadows had fallen on it: rain was not far. Even the Parson, blind-eyed Englishman that he was, noticed it, and was touched. After all the man was a boy, and a beaten boy. "Are you hurt?" he gruffed. "No--not hurt." The Parson thought he understood. "It was the pluckiest attempt I ever saw!" he cried with the generosity of the victor. "That black filly had never known the feel of a collar, till twenty minutes since.... I was to have broken her this autumn." "She was the least bit awkward at the start," mused the other. "But she handled sweetly all the same." "We had all the luck," continued the Parson. "But for that plank, you'd have brought it off. It'll be your turn next time!" The other lifted his face swiftly. "Ah, no," he cried, "you mistake. _That's_ nothing! It's _this!_" He pointed. Fifty yards away the wain lay wrecked on the greensward, the old white mare crumpled in the shafts. She was stone-dead, and her muzzle, with its coarse long hairs, was resting on the quarters of her daughter. "That's the worst of war," said the Gentleman in that remote voice of his. "_We_ know; _they_ don't." "I expect it's all fairer than it seems," said the Parson huskily. The other nodded. "Have you a pistol?" The filly was not dead. Lying on her side, she was lifting her head and craning back to gaze at her dead dam. Something clutched the Parson by the throat. A veil was rent. For a moment he seemed to see the tragedy as the man beneath him saw it--the passion, the pathos of that blind suffering in the cause of another. "Here!" he said hoarsely, handing down a pistol. The Gentleman took it, and seeing a pale face peering behind the other's shoulder, "She's not suffering, I think. Don't look, Little Chap." He walked back to the filly. Lying still now, her head along the greensward, she watched him coming; snorting through full-blown nostrils. He knelt at her head, pulling her ear, and caressing her. "There, then, there!--It's all over now, little woman. I've come to comfort you." CHAPTER LX THE TWO PRAYERS I The Gentleman was walking away into the sunset. The Parson turned from the dormer, and his eyes were wet. "And, now, my boy," he cried, "you know what a gentleman is." The words loosed the fountains of laughter in the lad's heart. "I thought, sir, that you said--" "You thought wrong," snapped the Parson. "I said nothing of the sort." He swung round on Blob and kicked him. "What fur why?" whimpered Blob. "Teach you!" cried the Parson. "Want some more, eh? Then behave yourself. I'm sick o your nonsense." He reached up to the rafter.