20 TALES OF THE TURF AND THE CHASE. 



the pluck of ten women, but you don't know what ridin' Satanas 

 means.' 



The velvet cap was thrown down now, the black-silk hand- 

 kerchief impetuously torn off. The girl had two bright spots on 

 her cheeks, and her eyes were shining with a feverish light, 



' I have ridden Satanas, Joe. See here !' Out of her pocket 

 she flung a packet of bank-notes on to the floor. ' He, your 

 master, paid Joe Dallas these for winning the Cesarewitch.' 



She leaned back against the door, breathing hard, while her 

 eyes were fixed with a vacant stare. Joe sat up, staring at her 

 with his wild and bloodshot eyes. 



' I was on the loose, then, last night. You must have drugged 

 me this morning, Jess. And you did it to save my name.' 



There was a trace of maudlin sentiment in his tone. Jess 

 looked at him almost contemptuously, and muttered, 

 ' To save my own.' 



Though desperately weary, and conscious of a brain quite 

 overtaxed, Jess knew her task was not finished. 



' There is something to remember yet. Let me say it quickly 

 before it slips away. Remember, Joe, you won the race by a 

 length, and weighed two pounds less than the last time. Now, 

 get up, wash yourself, and dress quickly. Morris and Mr. Ellis 

 said they would follow me at once.' 



She totters to her own room, feeling with outstretched hands 

 for the support of the wall as she moves. Mechanically she 

 hastens to strip off the manly garb she wears, not from any 

 womanly shame, but to preserve Joe's identity. She has only 

 half-dressed herself in her ev^er>'-day attire, when a sudden spasm 

 of acute agony paralyses her movements. Another and another 

 ■quickly successive pang of mortal pain, then a long loud scream 

 as a fountain of blood comes bubbling from her mouth. Joe 

 found her lying, face downwards, on the floor, with the discarded 

 yellow shirt beneath her stained with her life's blood. When 

 the doctor comes he can do nothing. He shakes his head 

 outside the door, but goes away promising to bring back some 

 restorative. Jess lies on the little iron bedstead, destitute of 

 curtains. Through the high narrow window the slanting rays 

 of warm autumn sunshine pour upon her face, so ghastly and 

 rigid now. No gentle womanly hand removes the stained gar- 

 ments from her sight, or bathes her hands and brow. Only 

 poor Joe hangs over her, in dishevelled attire and wild expression- 

 less woe, unless the inarticulate sounds that issue from time to 



