"Where's Matador now?"
"Still behind; O'Hagan will leave it too long if he don't take care. Ah, there he is coming up now, leaving the rest standing; by Jove, he and Cyclops are almost abreast, both going for the open ditch. Good—good God! ... It's all right, Mrs. Graeme, it's all right, I tell you. Your husband's up and walking about. Take my glasses and look for yourself, they're better than yours."
"But the other—the other, is he up too?"
"Can't see yet, these glasses are so infernally bad. Mrs. Graeme, do you mind if I leave you?"
"No, no, go quickly; get there first before them," pointing to a stream of people flowing across the maidan towards the open ditch. "Bring him straight back to me. I'll have the buggy waiting there by those trees. Oh, my God, what a fool I was not to have understood, you too, Captain Carson, it's as much your fault ... Why didn't you refuse?"
"Because I was a blind idiot. Hi you," advancing on a sais holding a pony hard by, "give up that ghora[#] at once."
[#] Horse.
"Smit sahib's pony," said the man, not moving.
"Don't care who's it is; let go, I say, or——" raising his stick.
He snatched the reins from the terrified native, and flinging himself into the saddle galloped away, belabouring the pony as he went. It was a race, but Carson won, and reaching his goal, a good hundred yards abreast of the leading man, sprang to the ground and ran up to where Graeme was standing, looking down on a huddled heap of white and scarlet at his feet. A few yards away lay Cyclops, his neck outstretched and one eye sightlessly staring, while away in the distance, with reins trailing and stirrups flapping, Matador could be seen, galloping gaily homeward. Seeing Peter, Hector turned and hurried to meet him.