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"If we don't come back in less than that time, what's left o' us won't be worth seekin' for," said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle. "Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri," cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed's bridle; "yell need it more than yer horse when ye git 'mong the red reptiles." "Vraiment, if mon mout' needs one bit, yours will need one padlock."
Taken by surprise Satan tried to rid himself of his burden, but the rider sat firm, leaned far over the steed's neck, stroked his head again, pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of a few minutes, guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first at a walk, then at a trot over the track.
"I will promise that cheerfully," said Harold, as he received the precious gifts. "To-morrow we will ride out again. We will have the same horses that bear us so bravely now. Do you note how strong and well-bred is the noble animal you ride?" "Yes," said Harold, patting the glorious arch of his steed's neck. "He's a fine fellow, and fleet, I warrant." "Fleet as the winds.
Ebbo was lifted on the shoulders of his bearers, and Friedel strove to rise, with the aid of Heinz, but sank back, unable to use his limbs; and Schleiermacher was the more concerned. "It goes so with the backbone," he said. "Sir Friedmund, you had best be carried." "Nay, for my mother's sake! And I would fain be on my good steed's back once again!" he entreated.
But as he cantered, the good steed's ears suddenly went back, he plunged, swerved, and answered his master's voice and heels by standing stock-still, staring affrightedly at what at first, to his rider, seemed a mere limp, inanimate bundle of old clothing lying half in, half out of the ditch.
He scattered coins among the mourners, for he would have liked to throw a gay covering adorned with precious stones over all sorrow and mourning. When he reached the mountains his horse began to stumble and falter. The steed's hoofs were insecure on the ringing flat stones; he reared his head and snorted, and would not go on. Simeon took counsel how he was to proceed.
Life's early dawn just opening faint, Your eye yet beaming heaven's own smile, So soon your tenderest guardians gone; Severe, poor child, your fate, All, all to you unknown. A noble duke has crossed the mead, And near you checked his steed's career: Wonder and pity touch his heart; With knowledge high, and manners pure, He rears you, makes his castle home your own.
Let oak branches smite the too slowly stooping skull, or rider's back not timely levelled with his steed's; let faithless bank give way, and bury in the brook; let hidden drain yield to fore feet and work a sudden wreck; let old coal-pit, with briery mouth, betray; and roaring river bear down man and horse, to banks unscaleable by the very Welsh goat; let duke's or earl's son go sheer over a quarry fifty feet deep, and as many high; yet, "without stop or stay, down the rocky way," the hunter train flows on; for the music grows fiercer and more savage, lo! all that remains together of the pack, in far more dreadful madness than hydrophobia, leaping out of their skins, under insanity from the scent, now strong as stink, for Vulpes can hardly now make a crawl of it; and ere he, they, whipper-in, or any one of the other three demoniacs, have time to look in one another's splashed faces, he is torn into a thousand pieces, gobbled up in the general growl; and smug, and smooth, and dry, and warm, and cozey, as he was an hour and twenty-five minutes ago exactly, in his furze bush in the cover, he is now piece-meal, in about thirty distinct stomachs; and is he not, pray, well off for sepulture?
Philander, emboldened by his former success, thinks he can show them a trick or two that will count; but a blow chances to fall upon his bony steed's haunches, starting the animal off, and the professor, throwing valor to the four winds, proceeds to clasp his arms tightly around the horse's neck, shouting out an entreaty for some one, in the name of Julius Cesar, Mohammed, or Tom Jones, to stop the wicked beast before he makes mince-meat of his master.
"Not now; not now," answered the 'Squire, digging his heels into his steed's side. "I want to talk t' yo' and these 'ere men 'bout what's gwine on in the Lincoln camps, but I must hurry on now to meet Capt. Solomon at the Winding Blades. I'll come over to your house this evening," he called back.
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