"In, Kit!" screamed the Parson.
"No, sir!" yelled the boy.
In a blinding light he saw the thing to do, and flashed to do it.
"The lynch-pins!"
Down he jumped, and dirk in hand raced for the tangle of horseflesh, black and white and heaving like an angry sea.
Swift as he was, the Gentleman was swifter.
Before the boy had touched ground, he was down from his perch, slashing at the tackle with his sword. Now he leapt to the mare's head, hurling her back into her breeching.
While Kit was yet twenty yards away, he was up again, standing on the shafts, reins in hand.
"Now, my lady!" came the high singing voice.
The brave old thing answered to it as though to a lover. She flung forward with a sob.