Hoof Beats 



from over the hills far away, to a pair of small, 

 shapely, pointed ears, cocked attentively forward. 

 The Marquis listened a moment, then threw up 

 his head with a snort, and with his tail held 

 straight out, went trotting across the field, lifting 

 his feet high and whinnying. His off foreleg was 

 as good as the near one now. He had known all 

 along it amounted to nothing. The Torchlights 

 were a little wild, perhaps, in their youth — one 

 might even be killed now and then — but they died 

 "sound," with their boots on as it were, not with 

 bowed tendons or splints or curbs, but game and 

 fighting to their glorious sporting end. So the 

 Marquis made a swift circle of the pasture until 

 he reached the upper end again, then he stood, his 

 shoulders against the fence, his head stretched 

 far out and trembling. With a sudden inspiration 

 up went his sleek fine-bred head in the air with a 

 squeal, and he wheeled directly about, galloped 

 back a dozen yards, then dug his hind hoofs into 

 the soft soil. His back roached, his quarters 

 swelled with muscles, and with three long strides 

 he reached the fence, another, and he rose into 

 the air, seemed to hang for a fleeting instant upon 

 the top rail, his two unshod hind hoofs just mak- 

 ing a light rat-tat as they hovered, then his fore- 

 legs shot out straight and he dropped down the 

 steep descent on the far side. Off he went, racing 

 16 



