Impetuously he went to him, stooped above him. "What on earth has happened, sir? You haven't been thrown?" he queried anxiously.
"Thrown! I!" Sir Beverley's voice cracked derisively. "No! I got off—to have a look at the place,—and the brute jibbed—and gave me the slip."
The words came with difficult jerks, his breathing was short and laboured. Piers, bending over him, saw a spasm of pain contract the grey face that nevertheless looked so indomitably into his.
"He'll go back to stables," growled Sir Beverley. "It's a way colts have—when they've had their fling. What have you come back for, eh? Thought I couldn't do without you?"
There was a stony glint in his eyes as he asked the question. His thin lips curved sardonically.
Piers, still with anxiety lying cold at his heart, had no place left for resentment. He made swift and winning answer. "I've been a brute, sir. I've come back to ask your forgiveness."
The sardonic lips parted. "Instead of—a hiding—eh?" gasped Sir
Beverley.
Piers drew back momentarily; but the grey, drawn face compelled his pity. He stifled his wrath unborn. "I'll take that first, sir," he said steadily.
Sir Beverley's frown deepened, but his breathing was growing less oppressed. He suddenly collected his energies and spoke with his usual irascibility.
"Oh, don't try any of your damned heroics on me, sir! Apologize like a gentleman—if you can! If not—if not—" He broke off panting, his lips still forming words that he lacked the strength to utter.