It seemed as though Burke, too, sensed that infinitesimal yielding to the saw of the bit. For the first time, he gave a definite pull at the reins. Then he relaxed the pressure, and again there followed the same sawing motion and the fret of the steel bar against sensitive, velvet lips. Then another pull—the man’s sheer strength against the mare’s.... Jean watched, fascinated.
And gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the frenzied beat of the iron-shod hoofs became more measured as the chestnut shortened her stride. It was no longer merely the thrashing, thunderous devil’s tattoo of sheer, panic-driven speed.
Now and again Jean could hear Burke’s voice, speaking to the frightened beast, chiding and reassuring in even, unhurried tones.
She was conscious of no fear, only of an absorbing interest and excitement as to whether Burke would be able to impose his will upon the animal before they reached that precipitous hill the descent of which must infallibly spell ‘destruction’.
She sat very still, her hands locked together, watching... watching....
CHAPTER XXII—“WILLING OR UNWILLING!”
IT was over. A bare twenty yards from the brow of the bill the man had won, and now the mare was standing swaying between the shafts, shaking in every limb, her flanks heaving and the sweat streaming off her sodden coat in little rivulets.
Burke was beside her, patting her down and talking to her in a little intimate fashion much as though he were soothing a frightened child.