“It is the only thing possible—­if my machine is unhurt.  They may have taken it . . . or ridden over and broken it.”

We went down to the spot, and picked it up where it lay, half-concealed among the brittle, dry scrub of milk-bushes.  I examined the bearings carefully; though there were hoof-marks close by, it had received no hurt.  I blew up the tire, which was somewhat flabby, and went on to untie my sturdy pony.  The moment I looked at her I saw the poor little brute was wearied out with her two long rides in the sweltering sun.  Her flanks quivered.  “It is no use,” I cried, patting her, as she turned to me with appealing eyes that asked for water.  “She can’t go back as far as Salisbury; at least, till she has had a feed of corn and a drink.  Even then, it will be rough on her.”

“Give her bread,” Hilda suggested.  “That will hearten her more than corn.  There is plenty in the house; Tant Mettie baked this morning.”

I crept in reluctantly to fetch it.  I also brought out from the dresser a few raw eggs, to break into a tumbler and swallow whole; for Hilda and I needed food almost as sorely as the poor beast herself.  There was something gruesome in thus rummaging about for bread and meat in the dead woman’s cupboard, while she herself lay there on the floor; but one never realises how one will act in these great emergencies until they come upon one.  Hilda, still calm with unearthly calmness, took a couple of loaves from my hand, and began feeding the pony with them.  “Go and draw water for her,” she said, simply, “while I give her the bread; that will save time.  Every minute is precious.”

I did as I was bid, not knowing each moment but that the insurgents would return.  When I came back from the spring with the bucket, the mare had demolished the whole two loaves, and was going on upon some grass which Hilda had plucked for her.

“She hasn’t had enough, poor dear,” Hilda said, patting her neck.  “A couple of loaves are penny buns to her appetite.  Let her drink the water, while I go in and fetch out the rest of the baking.”

I hesitated.  “You can’t go in there again, Hilda!” I cried.  “Wait, and let me do it.”

Her white face was resolute.  “Yes, I can,” she answered.  “It is a work of necessity; and in works of necessity a woman, I think, should flinch at nothing.  Have I not seen already every varied aspect of death at Nathaniel’s?” And in she went, undaunted, to that chamber of horrors, still clasping the baby.

The pony made short work of the remaining loaves, which she devoured with great zest.  As Hilda had predicted, they seemed to hearten her.  The food and drink, with a bucket of water dashed on her hoofs, gave her new vigour like wine.  We gulped down our eggs in silence.  Then I held Hilda’s bicycle.  She vaulted lightly on to the seat, white and tired as she was, with the baby in her left arm, and her right hand on the handle-bar.