And gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the frenzied beat of the iron-shod hoofs became more measured as the chestnut shortened her stride. It was no longer merely the thrashing, thunderous devil’s tattoo of sheer, panic-driven speed. Now and again Jean could hear Burke’s voice, speaking to the frightened beast, chiding and reassuring in even, unhurried tones. She was conscious of no fear, only of an absorbing interest and excitement as to whether Burke would be able to impose his will upon the animal before they reached that precipitous hill the descent of which must infallibly spell ‘destruction’. She sat very still, her hands locked together, watching... watching.... CHAPTER XXII--“WILLING OR UNWILLING!” IT was over. A bare twenty yards from the brow of the bill the man had won, and now the mare was standing swaying between the shafts, shaking in every limb, her flanks heaving and the sweat streaming off her sodden coat in little rivulets. Burke was beside her, patting her down and talking to her in a little intimate fashion much as though he were soothing a frightened child. “You’re all in, aren’t you, old thing?” he murmured sympathetically. Then he glanced up at Jean, who was still sitting in the cart, feeling rather as though the end of the world had occurred and, in some surprising fashion, left her still cumbering the earth. “She’s pretty well run herself out,” he remarked. “We shan’t have any more trouble going home”--smiling briefly. “I hope not,” answered Jean a trifle flatly. “You all right?” She nodded. “Yes, thank you. You must be an excellent whip,” she added. “I thought the mare would never stop.” Probably even Jean hardly realised the fineness of the horsemanship of which she had just been a witness--the judgment and coolness Burke had evinced in letting the mare spend the first freshness of her strength before he essayed to check her mad pace; the dexterity with which he had somehow contrived to keep her straight; and finally, the consummate skill with which, that last half-mile, he had played her mouth, rejecting the dead pull on the reins--the instinctive error of the mediocre driver--which so quickly numbs sensation and neutralises every effort to bring a runaway to a standstill. “Yes. I rather thought our number was up,” agreed Burke absently. He was passing his hands feelingly over the mare to see if she were all right, and suddenly, with a sharp exclamation, he lifted one of her feet from the ground and examined it. “Cast a shoe and torn her foot rather badly,” he announced. “I’m afraid we shall have to stop at the next village and get her shod. It’s not a mile further on. You and I can have tea at the inn while she’s at the blacksmith’s.” With a final caress of the steaming chestnut neck, he came back to the side of the cart, reins in hand. “Can you drive her with a torn foot?” queried Jean.