They were half-way along it when he pulled the horse up, and once more looked down on Witham.
“Your hand is a tolerably good one so long as you are willing to sacrifice yourself, but it has its weak points, and there is one thing I could not tolerate,” he said.
“What is that?”
Courthorne laughed wickedly, “You wish me to be explicit? Maud Barrington is devilishly pretty, but it is quite out of the question that you should ever marry her.”
Witham turned towards him with the veins on his forehead swollen. “Granting that it is so, what is that to you?”
Courthorne nodded as if in comprehension. “Well, I’m probably not consistent, but one rarely quite loses touch with everything, and if I believed that my kinswoman was growing fond of a beggarly farmer, I’d venture to put a sudden stop to your love-making. This, at least, is perfectly bona fide, Witham.”
Witham had borne a good deal of late, and his hatred of the man flared up. He had no definite intention, but he moved a pace forward, and Courthorne touched the horse with his heel. It backed, and then growing afraid of the blackness about it plunged, while Witham for the first time saw that there was a gap in the loosely-laid planking close behind it. Another plunge or flounder, and horse and rider would go down together.
For a moment he held his breath and watched. Then, as the beast, resisting its rider’s efforts, backed again, sprang forward and seized the bridle.
“Get your spurs in! Shove him forward for your life,” he said.
There was a momentary struggle on the slippery planking, and, almost as its hind hoofs overhung the edge, Witham dragged the horse away. Courthorne swung himself out of the saddle, left the farmer the bridle, and glanced behind him at the gap. Then he turned, and the two men looked at each other steadily. Their faces were a trifle paler than usual.