“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.
“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.
“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”
“Right, sir,” cried the dragoon. “He’s right, Mr Linnell. Take the lead, sir; my head’s on fire.”
“Forward!” cried the Colonel; and away they went through the dark night, but with the chalky road making their way clear.
After a mile or two the rapid swinging trot of the chargers grew into a regular military canter, and that, by an imperceptible change, into a rapid gallop that was now kept up, for the excitement of the chase told upon Mellersh, and his ideas of prudence as to husbanding the horses’ powers were swept away as if by the keen wind that dashed by their ears.
“I ought to check him,” said Mellersh, as he toned down his excitement for the minute; and then—“No, I cannot, for I must take that scoundrel by the throat.”