Then, this is what happened.

Gard—­his lantern in his left hand, and the Senechal’s father’s “dunderbush” in his right—­his eyes pinching spooks out of every inch of the black wall about him, and every string at its tightest—­had reached the crumbly bit of path near the Little Sark side, when, like a clap of thunder out of a blue sky, the black silence of the cutting vomited uproar—­the wild clang and beat of what sounded, in that hollow space, like the trampling of a thousand dancing hoofs—­shrill neighings and whinnyings and screamings, all blended into an indescribable and blood-curdling clamour that gashed the night like an outrage.

And then, before even he had time to wonder, the great white stallion was upon him—­dancing on its hind legs on that narrow path like an acrobat, towering above him to twice his own height, striking savagely down at him with its great front feet, screaming like a fiend.

He had no time to think.  His left arm and the lantern went up with the natural instinct of defence.  Just one glimpse he got—­and never forgot it—­of vicious white eyes and teeth, flapping red nostrils, wild-flying hair, and huge pawing feet descending on him, with the dirty white hair splaying out all round them as they came down.  Then his right hand went up also, and he fired full into all these things.  The lantern and the blunderbuss went spinning into the gulf, the great feet beat him to the ground, and rose and jabbed down at him with all the vicious might that lay behind them—­the savage white muzzle shrilling its blood-curdling screams of triumph all the while—­and all this in the space of a second.  “Good God!” cried the Doctor, craning over the eastern bank of the cutting, but fearful of firing into the turmoil lest he should hit Gard, so dropped himself bodily over on to the path.

Then the Senechal’s Sark eyes saw the great white head, with its flying veil of hair, as it towered up for another vicious jab at the fallen man, and he emptied both barrels of his gun into it.

A wild scream that shrilled along the night and woke Plaisance and Clos Bourel and Vauroque, and the great white devil reared to his fullest with wildly beating forefeet, toppled over backwards, and disappeared with one hideous thud and a final crash on the shingle of Coupee Bay.

It was worse than they had ever dreamed—­as bad almost as some of Gard’s own nightmares.

“Good God!  Good God!  Good God!” babbled the Doctor, as he groped in the dark for what might be left of their unfortunate decoy.

“Mon Dieu!  Mon Dieu!  Mon Dieu!” gasped the Senechal, with catching breath and shaking legs, as he ran round to join him in the search.

But there was no sign of Gard.

“Run, man!—­Plaisance—­a light!” jerked the Senechal.

“I can’t see,” groaned the Doctor.

“I’ll go!” and he set off at the best pace his years and his shaking legs could compass.