ever lest the chord should break. And every breath told him that it must break, soon or late.
The team was half raw and purely mad. It charged the heavy tree shadows blocked out on the road as if they were fences, and took them flying. The coach rocked and bucketted; the lamp-light shook in speckles from the wild upflung head of the mare to the long straight wither and neck behind her. Something ribbed like a whaleboat was mate to the mare. It bored with a steady sidelong persistence that meant trouble. Straight ahead the road ran into the stars, and the wind blown from their far cold glow whistled up under Randal’s coat to numb the trickle of blood down his ribs. He was twisted sideways that the strain of his arm across his left side might deaden the pain, when Murray’s head came through the front window. There was a ring in his voice that had not been there these two months.
“By Jove, Randal, it’s good! Oh, it’s good, man! They are cutting it out. It takes a man away from———”
“How’s Art?” said Randal, unmoving.
“Seems pretty right. He’s praying down there.” Murray laughed easily. “By George, Randal! I’m glad Saurian was away up the Pass. I wouldn’t have missed this—what are they going to do now?”
“Going to Hell, I think. Get back, and
