"It's frighted to death I be of him, m'm," said Jacobs.
"You're a fool," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Here, hold his head while I mount."
But The O'Shee did not wish to have his head held, and the lady in the pale pink silk dress had considerable difficulty in mounting into the shabby dogcart.
"I'll give it to him, little beast," said Mrs. O'Brien, as she took the whip from its place.
"For the Lord's sake, ma'am, don't lay that on him. He's niver had a sthroke on him in his life. He'll go mad entirely, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, ma'am, you'll be kilt entirely."
But Mrs. O'Brien's only reply was to touch Jacobs himself with the end of the whip, and then, before he could get to his place at the back of the dogcart, she laid the said instrument across The O'Shee's back. The O'Shee stood still for a minute, quivering from head to foot in unbounded amazement.
Jacobs tried to mount, but before he could do so, the lady and the horse were away. They went like a whirlwind; they went, as Jacobs described it afterwards, like a streak of lightning. In vain the angry woman tried to pull in The O'Shee; in vain she laid the whip across his shoulders. He was off—he was away. This was truly going—this was like flying. For the first time a sensation of fear come over the woman. She did not dare to look back, but she knew she was alone. She also knew one thing, that she was not going in the direction of Templemore. The horse had it his own way this time, and he was making straight as an arrow from a bow to one of those celebrated Irish bogs, which devour man and beast so that they are never heard of again. Once in the bog, you never get out; you never can. Mrs. O'Brien knew it. She knew there was only one way of helping herself. She must spring from the dogcart before the horse reached the bog, the great bog of Anniskail.
Suddenly she flung the reins down; suddenly she made a leap from the high dogcart on to a heap of stones on the soft narrow road. She gave one terrible, piteous scream, and then lay still. Her head was doubled under her very queerly, so that it did not seem to belong to her body. An Irish peasant coming by presently came up to her, turned her round and looked at her.
"Broken neck—dead on the spot," he said to himself; and then he thought he would begin to spread the news, until suddenly he saw in the midst of his anxiety and his great desire to be the first with such a piece of information, the well-known head of Farmer Barrett's O'Shee looking at him out of the bog. He was up to his neck and shoulders, and all the fire had gone out of him.
The peasant untied the lady's pale pink sash. Little he cared about her in comparison with the race-horse. Other peasants came to his relief, and together they dragged the shivering animal out of the black, black bog.