“I fancy you have quite enough to do at this moment!” cried he, still laughing.
Half mad with anger, Repton pressed his spurs to the cob's flanks, while he gave him a vigorous cut of the whip on the shoulder. The animal was little accustomed to such usage, and reared up wildly, and would inevitably have fallen back with his rider, had not the stranger, springing forward, seized the bridle, and pulled him down by main force. Whether indifferent to his own safety, or so blinded by passion as not to recognize to what he owed it, the old man struck the other a heavy blow with his whip over the head, cutting through his hat, and covering his face with blood.
The young man passing his arm through the bridle, so as to render the other's escape impossible, coolly removed his hat and proceeded to stanch the bleeding with his handkerchief,—not the slightest sign of excitement being displayed by him, nor any evidence of feeling that the event was other than a more accident.
“Let loose my bridle-rein,—let it loose, sir,” said Repton, passionately,—more passionately, perhaps, from observing the measured calmness of the other.
“When I know who you are, I shall,” said the young man.
“My name is Valentine Repton; my address, if you want it, is Merrion Square North, Dublin; and can you now tell me where a magistrate's warrant will reach you?”
“My present residence is a house you may have seen on the side of the mountain as you came along, called, I think, Barnagheela; my name is Massingbred.”
“You presume to be a gentleman, then?” said Repton.
“I have not heard the matter disputed before,” said Jack, with an easy smile, while he leisurely bound the handkerchief round his head.
“And of course, you look for satisfaction for this?”