The slope was with them. The old mare, with snarling head and backward ears, broke into a lumbering trot, snatching at her daughter's tail. The wain began to gather weigh, creaking, jolting, jerking along.
The filly was tearing into her collar; the old mare, swept along by the pursuing wain, broke into a heavy gallop. The Gentleman, holding them hard, was singing to them as they came.
"Mean mischief, sir," called Piper from below.
"Jove, they do!" muttered the Parson, chin forward, and eyes flaming as he watched. "Like a Horse Artillery battery coming into action."
The wain leapt and swung and bounced along like a live thing.
"Ah, I thought so…. Pace too good…. He's dropping his load….
Ah!—there goes another!"
A Grenadier was seen to fall with flapping tails, and another, and another; till the track of the thundering wain was strewn with men, who picked themselves up and pursued.
Only the intrepid coachman, his feet set deep, held his place, swaying to the swing of the wain.
The Parson gnawed his lip as he watched.
"What's it all mean, Piper?"