nch from himself
before he would give in through weariness.

If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might be
possible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once more
he encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperate
effort to obey him.

Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from the
stirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside.

Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself
as he bent over the horse.

"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance
he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long
would elapse before his pursuers reached him.

"What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon--good!"

Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts to
rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It
was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the
uncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg?
All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at the
horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some
way.

CHAPTER III

THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST

Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in
its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.

"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he
thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of
those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty,
least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick
to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went
caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in
its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were
choking.

"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"

There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been
it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern
fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up
to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still,
and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been
collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its
feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to
Paul, and looked