“Pretty nearly, I think,” said his lordship, with an attempt at a laugh, as he walked rather feebly and foolishly towards his horse. He mounted with some difficulty, and looked very pale.
“I hope you’re not much hurt,” said Florimel kindly, as she moved alongside of him.
“Not in the least—only disgraced,” he answered, almost angrily. “The brute’s a perfect Satan. You must part with her. With such a horse and such a groom you’ll get yourself talked of all over London. I believe the fellow himself was at the bottom of it. You really must sell her.”
“I would, my lord, if you were my groom,” answered Florimel, whom his accusation of Malcolm had filled with angry contempt; and she moved away towards the still prostrate mare.
Malcolm was quietly seated on her head. She had ceased sprawling, and lay nearly motionless, but for the heaving of her sides with her huge inhalations. She knew from experience that struggling was useless.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Malcolm, “but I daren’t get up.”
“How long do you mean to sit there then?” she asked.
“If your ladyship wouldn’t mind riding home without me, I would give her a good half hour of it. I always do when she throws herself over like that.—I’ve gat my Epictetus?” he asked himself, feeling in his coat pocket.
“Do as you please,” answered his mistress. “Let me see you when you get home. I should like to know you are safe.”
“Thank you, my lady; there’s little fear of that,” said Malcolm.