The gallop had communicated itself to Liftore’s blood, and, besides, he thought after such a run Kelpie would be less extravagant in her behaviour. “She is at your service,” said Florimel. He dismounted, his groom rode up, he threw him the reins, and called Malcolm. “Bring your mare here, my man,” he said. Malcolm rode her up half way, and dismounted. “If your lordship is going to ride her,” he said, “will you please get on her here. I would rather not take her near the other horses.” “Well, you know her better than I do.--You and I must ride about the same length, I think.” So saying his lordship carelessly measured the stirrup-leather against his arm, and took the reins. “Stand well forward, my lord. Don’t mind turning your back to her head: I’ll look after her teeth; you mind her hind-hoof,” said Malcolm, with her head in one hand and the stirrup in the other. Kelpie stood rigid as a rock, and the earl swung himself up cleverly enough. But hardly was he in the saddle, and Malcolm had just let her go, when she plunged and lashed out; then, having failed to unseat her rider, stood straight up on her hind legs. “Give her her head, my lord,” cried Malcolm. She stood swaying in the air, Liftore’s now frightened face half hid in her mane, and his spurs stuck in her flanks. “Come off her, my lord, for God’s sake. Off with you!” cried Malcolm, as he leaped at her head. “She’ll be on her back in a moment.” Liftore only clung the harder. Malcolm caught her head--just in time: she was already falling backwards. “Let all go, my lord. Throw yourself off.” He swung her towards him with all his strength, and just as his lordship fell off behind her, she fell sideways to Malcolm, and clear of Liftore. Malcolm was on the side away from the little group, and their own horses were excited, so those who had looked breathless on at the struggle could not tell how he had managed it, but when they expected to see the groom writhing under the weight of the demoness, there he was with his knee upon her head--while Liftore was gathering himself up from the ground, only just beyond the reach of her iron-shod hoofs. “Thank God!” said Florimel, “there is no harm done.--Well, have you had enough of her yet, Liftore?” “Pretty nearly, I think,” said his lordship, with an attempt at a laugh, as he walked rather feebly and foolishly towards his horse. He mounted with some difficulty, and looked very pale. “I hope you’re not much hurt,” said Florimel kindly, as she moved alongside of him. “Not in the least--only disgraced,” he answered, almost angrily. “The brute’s a perfect Satan. You _must_ part with her. With such a horse and such a groom you’ll get yourself talked of all over London. I believe the fellow himself was at the bottom of it. You really _must_ sell her.” “I would, my lord, if _you_ were my groom,” answered Florimel, whom his accusation of Malcolm had filled with angry contempt; and she moved away towards the still prostrate mare.