at that miserable mischance, he drove his fist into the bronze face.  The bust fell over, and Summerhay looked stupidly at his bruised hand.  A silly thing to do!  But it had quenched his anger.  He only saw Gyp’s face now—­so pitifully unhappy.  Poor darling!  What could he do?  If only she would believe!  And again he had the sickening conviction that whatever he did would be of no avail.  He could never get back, was only at the beginning, of a trouble that had no end.  And, like a rat in a cage, his mind tried to rush out of this entanglement now at one end, now at the other.  Ah, well!  Why bruise your head against walls?  If it was hopeless—­let it go!  And, shrugging his shoulders, he went out to the stables, and told old Pettance to saddle Hotspur.  While he stood there waiting, he thought:  ‘Shall I ask her to come?’ But he could not stand another bout of misery—­must have rest!  And mounting, he rode up towards the downs.

Hotspur, the sixteen-hand brown horse, with not a speck of white, that Gyp had ridden hunting the day she first saw Summerhay, was nine years old now.  His master’s two faults as a horseman—­a habit of thrusting, and not too light hands—­had encouraged his rather hard mouth, and something had happened in the stables to-day to put him into a queer temper; or perhaps he felt—­as horses will—­the disturbance raging within his rider.  At any rate, he gave an exhibition of his worst qualities, and Summerhay derived perverse pleasure from that waywardness.  He rode a good hour up there; then, hot, with aching arms—­for the brute was pulling like the devil!—­he made his way back toward home and entered what little Gyp called “the wild,” those two rough sedgy fields with the linhay in the corner where they joined.  There was a gap in the hedge-growth of the bank between them, and at this he put Hotspur at speed.  The horse went over like a bird; and for the first time since Diana’s kiss Summerhay felt a moment’s joy.  He turned him round and sent him at it again, and again Hotspur cleared it beautifully.  But the animal’s blood was up now.  Summerhay could hardly hold him.  Muttering:  “Oh, you brute, don’t pull!” he jagged the horse’s mouth.  There darted into his mind Gyp’s word:  “Cruel!” And, viciously, in one of those queer nerve-crises that beset us all, he struck the pulling horse.

They were cantering toward the corner where the fields joined, and suddenly he was aware that he could no more hold the beast than if a steam-engine had been under him.  Straight at the linhay Hotspur dashed, and Summerhay thought:  “My God!  He’ll kill himself!” Straight at the old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy bush.  Right at it—­into it!  Summerhay ducked his head.  Not low enough—­ the ivy concealed a beam!  A sickening crash!  Torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a pool of leaves and mud.  And the horse, slithering round the linhay walls, checked in his own length, unhurt, snorting, frightened, came out, turning his wild eyes on his master, who never stirred, then trotted back into the field, throwing up his head.