I looked round to see if my benefactor was near me, but he was nowhere to be seen.  Eight or ten hard riders were behind me; they shouted: 

“Don’t go into the wood!  Turn to your left!  Don’t go into the wood!”

I saw a fancy gate of yellow polished oak in front of me, at the end of one of the grass rides in the wood, and what looked like lawns beyond.  I was unable to turn to the left with my companions, but plunged into the trees where the hounds paused:  not so Havoc, who, in spite of the deep ground, was still going great guns.  A lady behind me, guessing what had happened, left her companions and managed somehow or other to pass me in the ride; and, as I approached the yellow gate, she was holding it open for me.  I shouted my thanks to her and she shouted back: 

“Get off when you stop!”

This was my fixed determination, as I had observed that Havoc’s tongue was over the bit and he was not aware that any one was on his back, nor was he the least tired and no doubt would have jumped the yellow gate with ease.

After leaving my saviour I was joined by my former companions.  The hounds had picked up again and we left the gate, the wood and the country seat behind us.  Still going very strong, we all turned into a chalk field with a white road sunk between two high banks leading down to a ford.  I kept on the top of the bank, as I was afraid of splashing people in the water, if not knocking them down.  Two men were standing by the fence ahead, which separated me from what appeared to be a river; and I knew there must be a considerable drop in front of me.  They held their hands up in warning as I came galloping up; I took my foot out of the stirrup and dropping my reins gave myself up for lost, but in spite of Havoc slowing up he was going too fast to stop or turn.  He made a magnificent effort, but I saw the water twinkling below me; and after that I knew no more.

When I came to, I was lying on a box bed in a cottage, with Peter and the lady who had held the yellow gate kneeling by my side.

“I think you are mad to put any one on that horse!” I heard her say indignantly.  “You know how often it has changed hands; and you yourself can hardly ride it.”

Havoc had tried to scramble down the bank, which luckily for me had not been immediately under the fence, but it could not be done, so we took a somersault into the brook, most alarming for the people in the ford to see.  However, as the water was deep where I landed, I was not hurt, but had fainted from fear and exhaustion.

Peter’s misery was profound; ice-white and in an agony of fear, he was warming my feet with both his hands while I watched him quietly.  I was taken home in a brougham by my kind friend, who turned out to be Mrs. Bunbury, a sister of John Watson, the Master of the Meath hounds, and the daughter of old Mr. Watson, the Master of the Carlow and the finest rider to hounds in England.