“If I miss him, jump off to the right,” he cried; and in a moment, before Margaret could answer or prevent him, he had got over the dashboard, and was in mid-air, a strange figure, in his long frock-coat and shiny hat.  With a bold leap—­and the Countess shivered as she saw him flying in front of her—­he alighted on the back of the off horse, almost on his face, but well across the beast for all that.  Light and wiry, a mere bundle of nerves dressed up, Mr. Barker was not to be shaken off, and, while the animal was still plunging, he had caught the flying bits of bridle, and was sawing away, right and left, with the energy of despair.  Between its terror at being suddenly mounted by some one out of a clear sky, so to say, and the violent wrenching it was getting from Barker’s bony little hands, the beast decided to stop at last, and its companion, who was coming in for some of the pulling too, stopped by sympathy, with a series of snorts and plunges.  Barker still clung to the broken rein, leaning far over the horse’s neck so as to wind it round his wrist; and he shouted to Margaret to get out, which she immediately did; but, instead of fainting away, she came to the horses’ heads and stood before them, a commanding figure that even a dumb animal would not dare to slight—­too much excited to speak yet, but ready to face anything.

A few moments later the groom, whose existence they had both forgotten, came running down to them, with a red face, and dusting his battered hat on his arm as he came.  He had quietly slipped off behind, and had been rolled head over heels for his pains, but had suffered no injury.  Then Barker got off.  He was covered with dust, but his hat was still on his head, and he did not look as though he had been jumping for his life.  Margaret turned to him with genuine gratitude and admiration, for he had borne himself as few men could or would have done.

“You have saved my life,” she said, “and I am very grateful.  It was very brave of you.”  And she held out her hand to meet his, now trembling violently from the fierce strain.

“Oh, not at all; it was really nothing,” he said, bowing low.  But the deep wrinkle that scored Barker’s successes in life showed plainly round his mouth.  He knew what his advantage was, and he had no thought of the danger when he reflected on what he had gained.  Not he!  His heart, or the organ which served him in place of one, was full of triumph.  Had he planned the whole thing with the utmost skill and foresight he could not have succeeded better.  Such a victory! and the very first day after Claudius’s departure—­Ye gods! what luck!