vor to stop the racing beast under him. So he began
a vicious sawing at her mouth. His efforts only drove her faster, and
caused her to throw her head higher and higher, until her crown was
within six inches of his face.

The futility of his purpose was almost ludicrous. He desisted. And the
Lady Jezebel lowered her head with an angry snort and rushed on harder
than ever. And now the race continued without relaxing. Once or twice
Tresler thought he detected other hoof-marks on the trail, but his
impression of them was very uncertain. One thing surely struck him,
however: since entering this relic of the old Indian days, a decided
change had come over the mare. She was no longer running blind; more,
it seemed to him that she displayed that inexpressible familiarity
with her surroundings which a true horseman can always detect, yet
never describe. This knowledge led him to the hope of the passing of
her temper.

But his hope was an optimistic mistake. The sweat pouring from neck,
shoulders, and flanks, she still lifted her mud-brown barrel to her
mighty stride, with all the vim and lightness of the start. He felt
that, jade that she was, she ran because she loved it; ran with a
delight that acted as a safety-valve for her villainous temper. She
would run herself into amiability and then stop, but not before. And
he knew her temper so well that he saw many miles lying ahead of him.

The rift was gradually widening, and the forest on either side
thinned. The trees were wider and more scattered, and the broken
hilltops, which but now had been well ahead, were frowning right over
him, and he knew, by the steady, gradual rise of the country, that he
would soon be well within the maze of forest, crag, and ravine, which
composed the mountain foot-hills.

At last the forest broke and the ragged land leapt into full view with
magical abruptness. It was as though Nature had grown her forest
within the confines of a field embraced by an imaginary hedge. There
were no outskirts, no dwindling away. It ended in one clean-cut line.
And beyond lay the rampart hills, fringed and patched with disheveled
bluff, split by rifts and yawning chasms. And ever they rose higher
and higher as the distance gained, and, though summer was not yet at
its height, it was gaunt-looking, torn, chaotic, a land of desolation.

The mare held straight on. The change of scene had no effect on her;
the trail still lay before her, and she seemed satisfied wi