How did those horses keep their footing?  They never knew, and certainly none that were bred in England could have done so.  Yet never falling, never stumbling even, on they sped, taking great rocks in their stride, till at length they reached the level piece of land above the stream, or rather above the cleft full eighteen feet in width at the foot of which that stream ran.  Godwin saw and turned cold.  Were these folk mad that they would put double-laden horses at such a jump?  If they hung back, if they missed their stride, if they caught hoof or sprang short, swift death was their portion.

But the old Arab seated behind Wulf only shouted aloud, and Masouda only tightened her round arms about Godwin’s middle and laughed in his ear.  The horses heard the shout, and seeming to see what was before them, stretched out their long necks and rushed forward over the flat ground.

Now they were on the edge of the terrible place, and, like a man in a dream, Godwin noted the sharp, sheer lips of the cliff, the gulf between them, and the white foam of the stream a score of yards beneath.  Then he felt the brave horse Flame gather itself together and next instant fly into the air like a bird.  Also—­and was this dream indeed, or even as they sped over that horrible pit did he feel a woman’s lips pressed upon his cheek?  He was not sure.  Who could have been at such a time, with death beneath them?  Perchance it was the wind that kissed him, or a lock of her loose hair which struck across his face.

Indeed, at the moment he thought of other things than women’s lips—­those of the black and yawning gulf, for instance.

They swooped through the air, the white foam vanished, they were safe.  No; the hind feet of Flame had missed their footing, they fell, they were lost.  A struggle.  How tight those arms clung about him.  How close that face was pressed against his own.  Lo! it was over.  They were speeding down the hill, and alongside of the grey horse Flame raced the black horse Smoke.  Wulf on its back, with eyes that seemed to be starting from his head, was shouting, “A D’Arcy!  A D’Arcy!” and behind him, turban gone, and white burnous floating like a pennon on the air, the grim-visaged Arab, who also shouted.

Swifter and yet swifter.  Did ever horses gallop so fast?  Swifter and yet swifter, till the air sang past them and the ground seemed to fly away beneath.  The slope was done.  They were on the flat; the flat was past, they were in the fields; the fields were left behind; and, behold! side by side, with hanging heads and panting flanks, the horses Smoke and Flame stood still upon the road, their sweating hides dyed red in the light of the sinking sun.

The grip loosened from about Godwin’s middle.  It had been close; on Masouda’s round and naked arms were the prints of the steel shirt beneath his tunic, for she slipped to the ground and stood looking at them.  Then she smiled one of her slow, thrilling smiles, gasped and said:  “You ride well, pilgrim Peter, and pilgrim John rides well also, and these are good horses; and, oh! that ride was worth the riding, even though death had been its end.  Son of the Sand, my Uncle, what say you?”