tter--gives way, and after a good deal of prancing stands
tolerably quiet, though still trembling from excitement and violent
temper.

By this time the groom, with Gower and Dicky Browne, have joined them.

"Get out Sir Christopher," says the groom, in an agitated voice, the
swift run having added to his anxiety.

"Not a bit of it," says Sir Christopher, indignantly, "I'll take her
back to the stables, or--"

"Get down at once," says Fabian, in a quick, decided tone. "Don't delay,
she is dangerous still and may bolt again at any moment. Besides, you
have had enough of it, surely!"

"I'm not going to be conquered by any mare born," says the old Baronet,
obstinacy setting it at this point; "what d'ye think I bred her for, eh?
To be made a laughing-stock for the county, I suppose, eh? Nothing of
the sort. She shall own me as master if I die for it. Here, get out of
my way all you boys--"

It is plain Sir Christopher is as yet undaunted, though, in truth, there
is danger still; the chestnut is flinging up her head in an uncertain,
frightened fashion, scattering angry foam as she does so, and her eyes
are showing more white than is seemly.

Fabian, who is still holding the bridle with both hands, looks at his
uncle, earnestly, almost, it might be said, curiously.

"If you are bent on taking this brute round yourself, of course, I shall
go with you," he says, indifferently. "Hold her head, George, for a
moment."

Even as he speaks the mare moves uneasily, and, as the groom approaches,
throws up her head impatiently, and in so doing touches Fabian's right
arm somewhat roughly. In spite of his self-control he winces
perceptibly.

"You are hurt," says Sir Christopher, anxiously. "How?--where?"

"This arm," says Fabian, touching the injured part lightly. "A mere
scratch, no doubt, but it hurts. Nevertheless, if you persist, I daresay
I shall be able to hold her in check with the other."

"Here, George, lead her home," says Sir Christopher, hurriedly, throwing
the reins he still holds to the groom, and hastily descending from the
dog-cart. "To drive, indeed, with an injured arm! stuff and nonsense!"
he says, severely. "Some people have no sense, eh? though I must say I
believe that poor brute is maligned. But for those shots fired off just
as I was entering the gates nothing would have happened."

"Roger and Sir Mark discharging their guns, I daresay," says Stephen;
"awkward, they should have chosen just that momen