the sorrel's hoofs. Ride for
the sake of the women and children and for your own honour. Ride like a
Cumner, lad."

The last sound of the sorrel's hoofs upon the red dust beat in the
Colonel's ears all night long, as he sat waiting for news from the
Palace, the sentinels walking up and down, the orderly at the door, and
Boonda Broke plotting in the town.

II. "REST AT THE KOONGAT BRIDGE AN HOUR"

There was no moon, and but few stars were shining. When Cumner's Son
first set out from Mandakan he could scarcely see at all, and he kept
his way through the native villages more by instinct than by sight.
As time passed he saw more clearly; he could make out the figures of
natives lying under trees or rising from their mats to note the flying
horseman. Lights flickered here and there in the houses and by the
roadside. A late traveller turned a cake in the ashes or stirred some
rice in a calabash; an anxious mother put some sandalwood on the coals
and added incense, that the gods might be good to the ailing child
on the mat; and thrice, at forges in the village, he saw the smith
languidly beating iron into shape, while dark figures sat on the floor
near by, and smoked and murmured to each other.

These last showed alertness at the sound of the flying sorrel's hoofs,
and all at once a tall, keen-eyed horseman sprang to the broad doorway
and strained his eyes into the night after Cumner's Son. He waited a few
moments; then, as if with a sudden thought, he ran to a horse tethered
near by and vaulted into the saddle. At a word his chestnut mare got
away with telling stride in pursuit of the unknown rider, passing up the
Gap of Mandakan like a ghost.

Cumner's Son had a start by about half a mile, but Tang-a-Dahit rode a
mare that had once belonged to Pango Dooni, and Pango Dooni had got her
from Colonel Cumner the night he escaped from Mandakan.

For this mare the hill-chief had returned no gift save the gold bracelet
which Cumner's Son now carried in his belt.

The mare leaned low on her bit, and travelled like a thirsty hound
to water, the sorrel tugged at the snaffle, and went like a bullmoose
hurrying to his herd,

"That long low gallop that can tire
The hounds' deep hate or hunter's fire."

The pace was with the sorrel. Cumner's Son had not looked behind after
the first few miles, for then he had given up thought that he might
be followed. He sat in his saddle like a plainsman; he listened like