At the first feel of insecurity behind, Torode slipped deftly out of the saddle. He still held the reins and endeavoured to drag the poor beast up. But Black Boy's heels were kicking frantically, now on thin air, now for a second against an impossible slope of rock which offered no foothold. For a moment he hung by his forelegs curved in rigid agony, his nostrils wide and red, his eyes full of frantic appeal, his ears flat to his head, his poor face pitiful in its desperation. Torode shouted to him, dragged at the reins—released them just in time.
Those who saw it never forgot that last look on Black Boy's face, never lost the rending horror of his scream as his forelegs gave and he sank out of sight, never forgot the hideous sound of his fall as he rolled down the cliff to the rocks below.
The girls hid their faces and sank sobbing into the heather. The men cursed Torode volubly, and regretted that he had not gone with Black Boy.
And it was none but black looks that greeted him when, after standing a moment, he came on across the Coupée and joined the rest.
"It is a misfortune," he said brusquely, as he came among us.
"It is sheer murder and brutality," said Charles Vaudin roughly.
"Guyabble! It's you that ought to be down there, not yon poor brute," said Guérin.
"Tuts then! A horse! I'll make him good to Hamon."
"And, unless I'm mistaken, you promised him not to ride the Coupée," I said angrily, for I knew how George Hamon would feel about Black Boy.
"Diable! I believe I did, but I forgot all about it in seeing you others crawling across. Will you lend me your horse to ride back, Carré? Mademoiselle rides home with me."