In a minute or two there was a small crowd. Half a dozen stray cyclists had wheeled up, and with their help Acton got out the horses, dreadfully cut about the legs and shivering with terror, from the wreckage. Down the dusty road were men running for dear life, and ahead of all Acton caught sight of a well-known athletic figure running like a deer, and in another moment Phil Bourne was asking the lady in panting bursts if she were not really hurt.
"No, Phil; not in the least. I owe my life to this gentleman, who pulled the horses into the bank before they could reach the bridge."
Phil wheeled round, his face beaming with gratitude, but when he saw Acton, pale to the lips, the words of thankfulness froze on his lips. For one instant he stared at his old enemy with wonder and amazement, then, with a gesture of utter gratitude, he said—
"Acton, I can never tell you how much I owe you for saving my mother's life, but will you shake hands?"
Acton looked at Bourne, whose face beamed with admiration and gratitude, and then he put out his hand. In that moment, so honourable to them both, the feud was stamped out for ever. Fresh as he was from as glorious a deed as any Amorian had ever done, he realized that he had been a blackguard towards Bourne the moment Phil begged him to shake hands.
Phil murmured almost inarticulate words of gratitude; but Acton, more than a trifle disturbed at his own thoughts, interrupted hastily—
"Say no more about it, please, Bourne. You'd have done as much for any one."
"Your hands are bleeding," said Phil, with immense concern.
"Nothing at all. I think the reins cut them."
Mrs. Bourne would bind them. "Of course!" said she. "How blind of me not to see that this gentleman is one of your schoolfellows, Phil."