I had yet no clear idea how to escape. In front the moors rose gradually, swelling to the horizon line, and there broken into steep, jagged heights. The road under me was sound white granite and stretch’d away till lost among these fastnesses—in all of it no sign of man’s habitation. Be sure I look’d along it, and to right and left, dreading to spy more troopers. But for mile on mile, all was desolate.
Now and then I caught the cry of a pewit, or saw a snipe glance up from his bed; but mainly I was busied about the mare. “Let us but gain the ridge ahead,” thought I, “and there is a chance.” So I rode as light as I could, husbanding her powers.
She was going her best, but the best was near spent. The sweat was oozing, her satin coat losing the gloss, the spume flying back from her nostrils—“Soh!” I called to her: “Soh! my beauty; we ride to save an army!” The loose stones flew right and left, as she reach’d out her neck, and her breath came shorter and shorter.
A mile, and another mile, we passed in this trim, and by the end of it must have spent three-quarters of an hour at the work. Glancing back, I saw the troopers scattered; far behind, but following. The heights were still a weary way ahead: but I could mark their steep sides ribb’d with boulders. Till these were passed, there was no chance to hide. The parties in this race could see each other all the way, and must ride it out.
And all the way the ground kept rising. I had no means to ease the mare, even by pulling off my heavy jack-boots, with one arm (and that my right) dangling useless. Once she flung up her head and I caught sight of her nostril, red as fire, and her poor eyes starting. I felt her strength ebbing between my knees. Here and there she blundered in her stride. And somewhere, over the ridge yonder, lay the Army of the West, and we alone could save it.
The road, for half a mile, now fetched a sudden loop, though the country on either side was level enough. Had my head been cool, I must have guessed a reason for this: but, you must remember, I had long been giddy with pain and loss of blood—so, thinking to save time, I turned Molly off the granite, and began to cut across.
The short grass and heath being still frozen, we went fairly for the first minute or so. But away behind us, I heard a shout—and it must have been loud to reach me. I learn’d the meaning when, about two hundred yards before we came on the road again, the mare’s forelegs went deep, and next minute we were plunging in a black peat-quag.
Heaven can tell how we won through. It must have been still partly frozen, and perhaps we were only on the edge of it. I only know that as we scrambled up on solid ground, plastered and breathless, I looked at the wintry sun, the waste, and the tall hill tow’ring to the right of us, and thought it a strange place to die in.
For the struggle had burst open my wound again, and the blood was running down my arm and off my fingers in a stream. And now I could count every gorsebush, every stone—and now I saw nothing at all. And I heard the tinkling of bells: and then found a tune running in my head—’twas “Tire me in tiffany,” and I tried to think where last I heard it.
But sweet gallant Molly must have held on: for the next thing I woke up to was a four-hol’d cross beside the road: and soon after we were over the ridge and clattering down hill.