es again....

All, however, that the Spaniard saw was a tall lazy-looking man with a
game leg, who by his gross interference had taken him by surprise.

He lowered his head and actually ran upon his fate....

I have never seen "punishment" at once so frightful and so
punctiliously administered. Jonah worked with the swift precision of
the surgeon about the operating table. He confessed afterwards that
his chief concern was to keep his opponent too blind with rage to see
the wisdom of capitulation. He need not have worried....

When it had become obvious that the blessed gifts of sight, smell, and
hearing had been almost wholly withdrawn from the gentleman, when, in
fact, he had practically ceased attempting to defend himself, and
merely bellowed with mortification at every stinging blow, Jonah
knocked him sprawling on to the midden, and drew off his wash-leather
gloves.

The next moment he was down on his knees beside the roan, plucking at
the rough harness with trembling fingers.

Once the horse sought to rise, but at Jonah's word he stopped and laid
down his head.

Between us we got him clear. Then we stood back, and Jonah called him.

With a piteous effort the roan got upon his legs. That there was back
trouble and at least one hock was sprung I saw at a glance. The horse
had been broken down. He was still blowing badly, and I ran for the
flask in the car. When I came back, Jonah was caressing his charger
with tears running down his cheeks....

There is a listlessness, born of harsh treatment, suckled on dying
hopes, reared on the bitter memory of happier days, which is more
eloquent than tears. There is an air of frozen misery, of a despair so
deep that a kind word has come to lose its meaning, which none but
horses wear.

Looking upon Zed, I felt ashamed to be a man.

Gaunt, filthy, and tottering, the flies mercilessly busy about three
shocking sores, the roan was presenting a terrible indictment to be
filed against the Day of Judgment. '...And not one of them is
forgotten before God....' But there was worse than pain of body here.
The dull, see-nothing eyes, the heavy-laden head, the awful-stricken
mien, told of a tragedy to make the angels weep--an English
thoroughbred, not dead, but with a broken heart.

We had administered the brandy, Jonah was bathing a sore, and I had
made a wisp and was rubbing Zed down, when--

"Good day," said a voice.

With his arms folded upon the sill, a lit