‘Black Lymport’d take the leap,’ said Mr. George, following her with the rest of the troop.  ‘Who’s that fellow on him?’

‘His name’s Harrington,’ quoth Drummond.

‘Oh, Harrington!’ Mr. George responded; but immediately laughed—­’Harrington?  ’Gad, if he takes the leap it’ll be odd—­another of the name.  That’s where old Mel had his spill.’

‘Who?’ Drummond inquired.

‘Old Mel Harrington—­the Lymport wonder.  Old Marquis Mel,’ said Mr. George.  ‘Haven’t ye heard of him?’

‘What! the gorgeous tailor!’ exclaimed Lady Jocelyn.  ’How I regret never meeting that magnificent snob! that efflorescence of sublime imposture!  I’ve seen the Regent; but one’s life doesn’t seem complete without having seen his twin-brother.  You must give us warning when you have him down at Croftlands again, Mr. George.’

‘Gad, he’ll have to come a long distance—­poor old Mel!’ said Mr. George; and was going on, when Seymour Jocelyn stroked his moustache to cry, ’Look!  Rosey ’s starting ’em, by Jove!’

The leap, which did not appear formidable from where they stood, was four fields distant from the point where Rose, with a handkerchief in her hand, was at that moment giving the signal to Laxley and Evan.

Miss Carrington and the Countess begged Lady Jocelyn to order a shout to be raised to arrest them, but her ladyship marked her good sense by saying:  ‘Let them go, now they’re about it’; for she saw that to make a fuss now matters had proceeded so far, was to be uncivil to the inevitable.

The start was given, and off they flew.  Harry Jocelyn, behind them, was evidently caught by the demon, and clapped spurs to his horse to have his fling as well, for the fun of the thing; but Rose, farther down the field, rode from her post straight across him, to the imminent peril of a mutual overset; and the party on the height could see Harry fuming, and Rose coolly looking him down, and letting him understand what her will was; and her mother, and Drummond, and Seymour who beheld this, had a common sentiment of admiration for the gallant girl.  But away went the rivals.  Black Lymport was the favourite, though none of the men thought he would be put at the fence.  The excitement became contagious.  The Countess threw up her veil.  Lady Jocelyn, and Seymour, and Drummond, galloped down the lane, and Mr. George was for accompanying them, till the line of Miss Carrington’s back gave him her unmistakeable opinion of such a course of conduct, and he had to dally and fret by her side.  Andrew’s arm was tightly grasped by the Countess.  The rivals were crossing the second field, Laxley a little a-head.

’He ‘s holding in the black mare—­that fellow!’ said Mr. George.  ’Gad, it looks like going at the fence.  Fancy Harrington!’

They were now in the fourth field, a smooth shorn meadow.  Laxley was two clear lengths in advance, but seemed riding, as Mr. George remarked, more for pace than to take the jump.  The ladies kept plying random queries and suggestions:  the Countess wishing to know whether they could not be stopped by a countryman before they encountered any danger.  In the midst of their chatter, Mr. George rose in his stirrups, crying: