By this time the groom, with Gower and Dicky Browne, have joined them.
"Get out Sir Christopher," says the groom, in an agitated voice, the swift run having added to his anxiety.
"Not a bit of it," says Sir Christopher, indignantly, "I'll take her back to the stables, or—"
"Get down at once," says Fabian, in a quick, decided tone. "Don't delay, she is dangerous still and may bolt again at any moment. Besides, you have had enough of it, surely!"
"I'm not going to be conquered by any mare born," says the old Baronet, obstinacy setting it at this point; "what d'ye think I bred her for, eh? To be made a laughing-stock for the county, I suppose, eh? Nothing of the sort. She shall own me as master if I die for it. Here, get out of my way all you boys—"
It is plain Sir Christopher is as yet undaunted, though, in truth, there is danger still; the chestnut is flinging up her head in an uncertain, frightened fashion, scattering angry foam as she does so, and her eyes are showing more white than is seemly.
Fabian, who is still holding the bridle with both hands, looks at his uncle, earnestly, almost, it might be said, curiously.
"If you are bent on taking this brute round yourself, of course, I shall go with you," he says, indifferently. "Hold her head, George, for a moment."
Even as he speaks the mare moves uneasily, and, as the groom approaches, throws up her head impatiently, and in so doing touches Fabian's right arm somewhat roughly. In spite of his self-control he winces perceptibly.
"You are hurt," says Sir Christopher, anxiously. "How?—where?"