he turned and galloped back, and since he had been one of the first
in the advance, he was naturally one of the last to retreat. There had
been a rare burst of a downhill mile or two, and his horse, unfed and
unwatered within the last twelve hours, was in need of mercy. He rode
the poor beast tenderly, caressing him as he went, and looking up he
was aware of an officer in staff uniform, who was rounding up the
stragglers. There are few things that appeal more directly from man
to man than the sympathy of the sound and rooted sportsman. Polson had
followed the hounds almost from the time when he could first bestride a
pony; and the sight of a clean workman across bad country was like wine
to him at any time. This fellow in the cocked hat and waving plumes was
splendidly mounted, to be sure, but the going was as treacherous and
difficult as it well could be, and the horseman rode with an address and
daring which were delightful to look at. He waved an urgent hand from
three or four hundred yards away towards Polson, who responded by a
gesture indicating the route he meant to take. The last straggler having
been thus rounded up, the officer turned and reined in his charger for a
final look at the retreating forces of the enemy; and somewhere from the
black middle mass of them down in the shadow of the valley there came a
flash and a volley of smoke, and almost directly afterwards an echoing
boom of sound. The charger reared, drooped upon his haunches, and fell
over; the rider dropped with admirable agility on one side and avoided
the threatened mischief of the fall. There were scores of unmastered
steeds racing about the valley and the upward slopes; Polson rode for
the nearest, and, having secured it, cantered up to the place where the
dead charger lay, A round shot had ploughed its way clean through the
noble creature's chest, and the sight was pitiable and gruesome.

'Here is a mount, sir,' said the young dragoon. 'Not as good as your
own, but it will carry you back to camp, anyhow.'

As he spoke, the epauletted cocked-hatted owner of the slaughtered
charger was leaning downward, detaching something from a holster, and
when he looked up he displayed the features of Major de Blacquaire.

Until that instant neither could have recognised the other, but at the
first glance there was a challenge in the eyes of either.

'Thanks, my man,' said De Blacquaire, laying a hand upon the rein which
Polson held out towards him.