Gheena raised her head. Mr. Freyne was not going to the village, he was turning down to the Dower House to see how many stalls must be replaced after the winter's wind. Shrilly and decidedly Gheena whistled the quick "One—two—three" which Whitebird had learnt so thoroughly.
He cocked his ears and turned his big docile head. The whistle rang again.
Then just on the edge of the turn where it was muddy, the white horse folded up and died obediently, pinning his rider's foot quite securely under him.
The yell which reft the air did not disturb him in the least. He died, got up again, and saluted at his own time.
With a rush on hands and knees, Gheena explaining as they fled, the crouchers scrambled past the open gap, and round behind a thick clump of gorse on the hill in the field, from which they could get through a gate and into the yard, or be hidden where they were.
"You—something—something brute! You German!" came in staccato from the road.
"Do you think he's hurt?" whispered Stafford in Gheena's ear. They were crouched close together under the prickly shelter.
Gheena replied briefly that she was not going to see.
"He's up," hissed Darby, "and quite annoyed."
The white horse arose and saluted, looked for a rewarding carrot, and saw instead a threatening whip, so backed faster towards home, wondering what he had done wrong.