For a moment or two the youth gazed on her, with a flashing eye and quivering lip, while the mare, catching excitement from the free air of the morning, and the spring she had made, stood with swelled veins and trembling limbs, his counterpart in eagerness. One spirit seemed to animate both. So Mark appeared to feel it, as with a bound he sprung into the saddle, and with a wild cheer dashed forward. With lightning's speed they went, and in a moment disappeared from view. Kerry jumped up on a broken gate-pier, and strained his eyes to catch them, while Lanty, muttering maledictions to himself, on the hair-brained boy, turned everywhere for a spot where he might view the scene. [Illustration: 55] “There he goes,” shouted Kerry; “look at him now; he's coming to the furze ditch into the big field: see! see! she does not see the fence; her head's in the air. Whew--elegant, by the mortial--never touched a hoof to it!--murther! murther! how she gallops in the deep ground, and the wide gripe that's before her! Ah, he won't take it; he's turning away.” “I wish to the Lord he'd break a stirrup-leather,” muttered Lanty. “Oh, Joseph!” screamed Kerry, “there was a jump--twenty feet as sure as I'm living. Where is he now?--I don't see him.” “May you never,” growled Lanty, whose indignant anger had burst all bounds: “that's not treatment for another man's horse.” “There he goes, the jewel; see him in the stubble field; sure it's a real picture to see him going along at his ease. Whurroo--he's over the wall. What the devil's the matter now?--they're away;” and so it was: the animal that an instant before was cantering perfectly in hand, had now set off at top speed, and at full stretch. “See the gate--mind the gate--Master Mark--tear-and-ages, mind the gate,” shouted Kerry, as though his admonition could be heard half a mile away. “Oh! holy Mary! he's through it,” and true enough--the wild and now affrighted beast dashed through the frail timbers, and held on her course, without stopping. “He's broke the gate to flitters.” “May I never, if I don't wish it was his neck,” said Lanty, in open defiance. “Do you, then?” called out Kerry. “Why, then, as sure as my name's Kerry O'Leary, if there's a hair of his head hurted, I'll--” What the threat was intended for, cannot be known; for his eye once more caught sight of his idol, and he yelled out-- “Take care of the sheep. Bad luck to ye for sheep, ye're always in the way. That's the darling--'twas myself taught you to have a light hand. Ah, Kittane, you're coming to rayson now.” “The mare won't be worth sixpence,” muttered Lanty. “Twas as good as a day's sport to me,” said Kerry, wiping his brow with the loose sleeve of his coat, and preparing to descend from the elevation, for the young man now entered the distant part of the lawn, and, at an easy canter, was returning to the stable-yard.