Hoof Beats 



and with the rush of the Yorkshire Lad's breath 

 past his ears, he doubles the length of his stride. 



"We've got him, we've got him, we've got him," 

 comes from the field beyond but it ends in a deep 

 throaty scream that announces the finish is near. 

 There's one more jump that's all, the Marquis is 

 near it now, and Fullerton rises in his stirrups as 

 he glances back at the Yorkshire Lad, and halloes. 

 It's a ragged stone wall with an ox-rail before, and 

 a "rider" or two laid along the top; a wicked 

 thing at the end of a day, for any horse to jump, 

 not to mention a colt. 



The Marquis's nostrils are quivering and show- 

 ing the red within, his ears are no longer erect, 

 and the way he gallops is dead; but his eyes still 

 burn, and his tail sweeps out, for his is Torchlight 

 blood, and there is ever the pounding behind him 

 of the Yorkshire Lad's hoofs on the turf. 



The Master once over and safely away, turns 

 expectantly in his saddle to watch, as the Mar- 

 quis approaches the wall, and the Master is not 

 disappointed, for the Marquis makes one final 

 effort, gets well over, and then, his hind feet, 

 barely caressing the top, kicks himself away. 

 But the Yorkshire Lad who comes under whip and 

 spur, is roaring hoarsely, flecked with blood and 

 foam, and he falls when he strikes the wall. 



That was all. In another moment the hounds 

 130 



