Pyke went down on his knees, and with trembling hands turned the motionless form on its face, and peered at it.
Then he started back with an oath.
"I've done for him!" he muttered, hoarsely, and the wind seemed to echo mockingly: "Done for him." "He's as dead as a herring! Curse him, it serves him right!" he ground out, and he raised his foot, but withheld the kick as a thought—the thought of self-preservation—came to him. "Looks ugly!" he muttered, "cursed ugly. There's more trouble in this than I thought on!"
He looked up and down the lane and across the hedge with the keen, fearful face of a man who already hears the pursuers; then buttoning his wet coat round him, and giving a parting glance at the still form, began to run—like Cain.
He went in the direction of Lee, and was so absorbed in the one idea of flight, that a dark object which stood beside the hedge just before him made him spring aside, and almost shout with fear.
But it was only the colt, which, too frightened by the storm, and disheartened by the rain, was cowering under the lee of the hedge.
Pyke was hurrying by it, when he pulled up suddenly, and struck his leg as if welcoming an inspiration.
"Dang it!" he cried, exultingly, "that's the game. Woa, horse, woa, horse," and he crept slowly up to the colt.
The animal was far too cowed to attempt flight, and Pyke got hold of the bridle easily. But he did not mount. Instead, he unfastened one stirrup and struck the colt with it. The horse, maddened by fear, started and shook, then tore down the lane at breakneck pace.