"The sooner the better," replies he, bitterly. "What have I got to live for? My life is of no use, either to myself or to any one else, as far as I can see."
"It is very wicked of you to talk so!" angrily.
"Is it? You should have thought of that before you made me think so. As it is, I am not in the humor for lecturing to do me much good. If I am killed, blame yourself. Meantime, I like hunting: it is the only joy left me. When I am riding madly like this, I feel again almost happy—almost," with a quickly suppressed sigh.
"Still, I ask you, for my sake, to be more careful," says Lilian, anxiously, partly frightened, partly filled with remorse at his words, though in her heart she is vexed with him for having used them. "Her fault if he gets killed." It is really too much!
"Do you pretend to care?" asks he, with a sneer. "Your manner is indeed perfect, but how much of it do you mean? Give me the hope I asked for last night,—say only two kind words to me,—and I will be more careful of my life than any man in the field to-day."
"I think I am always saying kind things to you," returns she, rather indignant; "I am only too kind. And one so foolishly bent on being miserable as you are, all for nothing, deserves only harsh treatment. You are not even civil to me. I regret I addressed you just now, and beg you will not speak to me any more."
"Be assured I shan't disobey this your last command," says Archibald, in a low, and what afterward appears to her a prophetic tone, turning away.
The field is growing thin. Already many are lying scattered broadcast in the ditches, or else are wandering hopelessly about on foot, in search of their lost chargers. The hounds are going at a tremendous pace; a good many horses show signs of flagging; while the brave old fox still holds well his own.
Taffy came to signal grief half an hour ago, but now reappears triumphant and unplucked, splashed from head to heel, but game for any amount still. Mrs. Steyne in front a-fighting hard for the brush, while Lilian every moment is creeping closer to her on the bonny brown mare that carries her like a bird over hedges and rails. Sir Guy is out of sight, having just vanished down the slope of the hill, only to reappear again a second later. Archibald is apparently nowhere, and Miss Chesney is almost beginning to picture him to herself bathed in his own gore, when raising her head she sees him coming toward her at a rattling pace, his horse, which is scarcely up to his weight, well in hand.
Before him rises an enormous fence, beneath which gleams like a silver streak a good bit of running water. It is an awkward jump, the more so that from the other side it is almost impossible for the rider to gauge its dangers properly.