Vibart listened and heard a distant storm of hoof-beats. A moment later, a buggy drawn by a pair of trotters swung round the turn of the road. It was about thirty yards off, coming toward them at full speed. The man who drove was leaning forward with outstretched arms; beside him sat a girl.
Suddenly Vibart saw Mr. Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand.
“They’re not running!” Vibart shouted, springing into the road and catching Mr. Carstyle’s alpaca sleeve. The older man looked around vaguely: he seemed dazed.
“Come away, sir, come away!” cried Vibart, gripping his arm. The buggy swept past them, and Mr. Carstyle stood in the dust gazing after it.
At length he drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was very pale and Vibart noticed that his hand shook.
“That was a close call, sir, wasn’t it? I suppose you thought they were running.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Carstyle slowly, “I thought they were running.”
“It certainly looked like it for a minute. Let’s sit down, shall we? I feel rather breathless myself.”
Vibart saw that his friend could hardly stand. They seated themselves on a tree-trunk by the roadside, and Mr. Carstyle continued to wipe his forehead in silence.
At length he turned to Vibart and said abruptly: