Mat stretched out to catch the poised weapon—seized it—at the same moment the horse made another plunge for the fence. Mat again saved his leg but was overbalanced trying to do two things at once, and he fell off. Never, however, quitting his hold of the reins, he gave Satan a sound slap with his open hand as he regained the saddle, prepared for further hostilities.
But the fight was over.
The horse stood there, never caring even for the jostling of men who were round him; two jets of steam spouting from his nostrils, his wet flanks heaving with spasmodic jerks, and accompanied by a noise of choking sobs.
Mat appeared ready to faint, so, without more ado, Tim and his friends dragged him from the saddle, bore him away on their shoulders out of the yard, and deposited him on a mattress, which had been placed under a shady tree by Terebare’s forethought.
Burns, during the time that this “man-horse” struggle had lasted, had been in a perfect ecstasy of delight, hopping round the crowd with a bottle of his favourite “three star” in his hand, out of which he constantly “pledged our hero,” or proffered it to the bystanders for the same purpose. When he saw Mat at length carried out of the yard, he hurried up to him with,—
“By Jove! old man, finest thing I’ve ever seen; if it hadn’t been for the two feet of dust, though, he’d have killed you outright when he rolled. By gad, you’re the best man I’ve seen in over twenty years of bush-life. I’d offer you a hundred a year, and more, if you’d stop; but anyhow, take a ‘ball’ now, you look as though you wanted it.”
But Mat, though he was glad of the brandy, and took a deep pull at the bottle, had no voice left in him.
So they left him to the care of the faithful Terebare, who, taking his head on her lap and bathing his face, sung him a soothing native chant until he fell asleep from exhaustion.