The rest of the wrangle was spared to the company, for at that moment a partridge buzzed out of a bush at their feet, Bronzewing's equanimity gave way, and with a snort of eagerness she burst after it, Shâhzâd following suit; both beasts heading straight as a die after the quarry, heedless of their riders or their discussions. 'Give him his head, Miss Tweedie,' shouted Lewis, as he shot past. 'He has done it before and knows the game! Off we are!' Off indeed, helter-skelter, behind the grey-brown buzz of wings showing against a blue sky. 'Ride it! Ride it! Keep an eye on it! I'll do back,' came Lewis Gordon's voice, boyishly excited, as, with hands down, he veered the mare a point or two by main force, until, as she caught sight of a heavier' clump of bushes comprehension came to the game little beast, and she headed straight for it. 'Where? Oh! Where?' cried Rose distractedly to Dan Fitzgerald, who was now racing beside her. 'Right ahead--there--don't you see?' Just a brown speck against the blue sky still, but skimming faster and faster to meet the brown horizon. There still, no--yes-- _Gone!_ Rose gave a cry, which was echoed by an exclamation from Dan, as instinctively they reined up, feeling the chase was over. George, hurrying up from behind, where his pony had been playing the fool, found them staring disconsolately at the bushes. 'Lost it, I suppose,' said Lewis, as he rejoined them. 'It is always difficult to keep it in sight on the horizon. However, you have had a good burst, Miss Tweedie. See! we started there--a good mile back. Have you any idea how you got here?' 'None! I suppose I rode; but I saw nothing but a sort of big bumble-bee buzzing in front of me. Shâhzâd did the rest.' 'As I said, not for the first time, which confirms me in saying he is only a Gulf Arab, for partridge-hunting is a Persian sport. Only don't tell your father, please; he would never forgive me.' As he turned in his saddle, resting one hand on the mare's quarters in order to speak to Rose, voice and face full of almost boyish enjoyment, the girl felt that this was a new development of his character, and that she liked it better than the old ones. 'Now, as we go along, I'll explain. That bird took us by surprise,' he went on eagerly. 'Four is an ideal number, though I've had rare fun riding partridge single-handed. Number one ought to make the pace, keeping both eyes on the bird. Number two keeps his on the going, so as to save Number one from coming to grief over rough country. Number three rides cautious, landmarks the flight, and is ready to turn if the bird breaks back--you can't when you are going full speed, unless the bird towers. Number four rides cunning, cuts off curves, and heads for likely covers. The whole aim being to press the partridge so hard that it has no time to settle in shelter, but, after skimming down to a bush, runs through it, and takes to wing again on the other side.'