st and foam, sides
and cheeks--and with her large eyes glaring wildly, almost piteously,
upon her master.

"Art hurt, lass?" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly
shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scrutiny. "Nothing but a
shake; though that dull eye--those quivering flanks----" added he,
looking earnestly at her. "She won't go much further, and I must give it
up--what! give up the race just when it's won? No, that can't be. Ha!
well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid, given me by an old fellow, who
was a knowing cove and famous jockey in his day, which he swore would
make a horse go as long as he'd a leg to carry him, and bade me keep it
for some great occasion. I've never used it; but I'll try it now. It
should be in this pocket. Ah! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after
all, as Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like thee. No
matter! It will be a glorious end."

Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents of the
bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait long before its
invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire was kindled in the
glassy orb; her crest was once more erected; her flank ceased to quiver;
and she neighed loud and joyously.

"Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. "The drink has worked
wonders. What the devil could it have been? It smells like spirit,"
added he, examining the bottle. "I wish I'd left a taste for myself. But
here's that will do as well." And he drained his flask of the last drop
of brandy.

Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was with
difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary preliminary
being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no difficulty in
resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We know not whether
there was any likeness between our Turpin and that modern Hercules of
the sporting world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far be it from us to institute any
comparison, though we cannot help thinking that, in one particular, he
resembled that famous "copper-bottomed" squire. This we will leave to
our reader's discrimination. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He
suffered somewhat of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore,
occurs "to weavers and M. P.'s, from sitting too long;" but again on his
courser's back, he cared not for anything.

Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don,
skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried