By this time the squalls were coming fast on each other’s heels, and the strength of them flung him forward at each stride.  He had lost his hat, and the rain poured down his back and squished in his boots.  But all he felt was the hate in his heart.  It had gathered there little by little for three years and a half, pent up, fed by his silent thoughts as a reservoir by small mountain streams; and with so tranquil a surface that at times—­poor youth!—­he had honestly believed it reflected God’s calm, had been proud of his magnanimity, and said “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.”  Now as he ran he prayed to the same God to delay the traitor at the ford.

Dusk was falling when George, yet unaware of pursuit, turned down the sunken lane which ended beside the ford.  And by the shore, when the small waves lapped against his mare’s fore-feet, he heard Taffy’s shout for the first time and turned in his saddle.  Even so it was a second or two before he recognised the figure which came plunging down the low cliff on his left, avoiding a fall only by wild clutches at the swaying elder boughs.

“Hello!” he shouted cheerfully.  “Looks nasty, doesn’t it?”

Taffy came down the beach, near enough to see that the mare’s legs were plastered with mud, and to look up into his enemy’s face.

“Get down,” he panted.

“Hey?”

“Get down, I tell you.  Come off your horse and put up your fists!”

“What the devil is the matter?  Hello! . . .  Keep off, I tell you!  Are you mad?”

“Come off and fight.”

“By God, I’ll break your head in if you don’t let go. . . .  You idiot!”—­as the mare plunged and tore the stirrup-leather from Taffy’s grip—­“She’ll brain you, if you fool round her heels like that!”

“Come off, then.”

“Very well.”  George backed a little, swung himself out of the saddle and faced him on the beach.  “Now perhaps you’ll explain.”

“You’ve come from the headland?”

“Well?”

“From Lizzie Pezzack’s.”

“Well, and what then?”

“Only this, that so sure as you’ve a wife at home, if you come to the headland again I’ll kill you; and if you’re a man, you’ll put up your fists now.”

“Oh, that’s it?  May I ask what you have to do with my wife, or with Lizzie Pezzack?”

“Whose child is Lizzie’s?”

“Not yours, is it?”

“You said so once; you told your wife so; liar that you were.”

“Very good, my gentleman.  You shall have what you want.  Woa, mare!” He led her up the beach and sought for a branch to tie his reins to.  The mare hung back, terrified by the swishing of the whipped boughs and the roar of the gale overhead:  her hoofs, as George dragged her forward, scuffled with the loose-lying stones on the beach.  After a minute he desisted and turned on Taffy again.

“Look here; before we have this out there’s one thing I’d like to know.  When you were at Oxford, was Honoria maintaining you there?”