had the remotest idea of
refusing.

It was the last fence that either of them ever charged. As the chestnut
rose to the leap, his hind legs slipped; he chested the rail, which
would not break, and turned quite over, crushing Guy beneath him.

I had seen the latter fall a hundred times without feeling the
presentiment that seemed to _tighten_ round my heart as I galloped up to
the spot. Many others must have felt the same, for they let the hounds
go away without another glance, and some were before me there.

The Axeine lay stone dead, with his neck broken, the huge carcass
pressing on the legs of his rider. Guy was quite senseless; his face of
a dull, ghastly white; there was a deep cut on his forehead; but we all
felt we did not see the worst. With great trouble we drew him from under
the dead horse. Still we could discover no broken bones or further
external injury. We dashed water over him. In a few minutes he opened
his eyes, and seemed to recognize every one directly, for he looked up
into the frightened face of the first whip, who was supporting him, and
said,

"You always told me I went too fast at timber, Jack."

I was sure, then, he was desperately injured, his voice was so weak and
changed.

"Where are you hurt, Guy?" some one asked. I could not speak myself.

"I don't know," he said, looking down in a strange, bewildered way. "My
head and arm pain me; but I feel nothing _below the waist_."

His lower limbs were not much twisted or distorted, but they bore a
horribly inert, dead appearance. There was not even a muscular quiver in
them.

I saw the Squire of Brainswick turn his head away with a shudder and a
groan (he loved Guy as his own son), and I heard him mutter, "The
_spine_!"

It was so, and Livingstone soon knew it himself. He sighed once,
drearily; but not a man there could have commanded his voice as he did
when he said,

"You must carry me home, heavy as I am. My walking days are ended."

We made the best litter we could of poles and branches; and I remember,
as we bore him past the carcass of the Axeine, he made us stop for an
instant, and dropping his hand on the stiff, distorted neck, stroked it
softly,

"Good-by, old horse," he said. "It was no fault of yours. How well you
always carried me!" He never spoke again till we reached Kerton Manor.

Isabel Forrester was fortunately out, but Lady Catharine met us on the
hall steps. She did not shriek or faint when she saw the horror, w