“Oh—we can do that,” Norah thought. “Brunette likes water.”
She touched the pony with her heel for the first time, and spoke to her. Brunette responded instantly, gathering herself for the jump. Again Norah heard a shout, and was conscious of the feeling of vague irritation that we all know when some one is trying to tell us something we cannot possibly hear. She took the pony at the jump about twenty yards from the place where Killaloe had flown it. Nearer and nearer. The water gleamed before her, very close: she felt the pony steady herself for the leap. Then the bank gave way under her heels: there was a moment’s struggle and a stupendous splash.
Norah’s first thought was that the water was extremely cold; then, that the weight on her left leg was quite uncomfortable. Brunette half-crouched, half-lay, in the stream, too bewildered to move; then she sank a little more to one side and Norah had to grip her mane to keep herself from going under the surface. It seemed an unpleasantly long time before she saw her father’s face.
“Norah—are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” she said. “But I can’t get my leg out—and Brunette seems to think she wants to stay here. I suppose she finds the mud nice and soft.” She tried to smile at his anxious face, but found it not altogether easy.
“We’ll get you out,” said David Linton. He tugged at the pony’s bridle; and Mrs. Ainslie, arriving presently, came to his assistance, while some of the other riders, coming up behind, encouraged Brunette with shouts and hunting-crops. Thus urged, Brunette decided that some further effort was necessary, and made one, with a mighty flounder, while Norah rolled off into the water. Half a dozen hands helped her at the bank.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” her father asked anxiously. “I was horribly afraid she’d roll on your leg when she moved.”
“I’m quite all right—only disgustingly wet,” said Norah. “Oh, and I missed the finish—did you ever know such bad luck?”
“Well, you only missed the last fifty yards,” said Mrs. Ainslie, pointing to the quarry, from which the whips were dislodging the aggrieved hounds. “We finished there; and that old fox is good for another day yet. I’d give you the brush, if he hadn’t decided to keep it himself.”
“Oh!” said Norah, blushing, while her teeth chattered. “Wasn’t it a beautiful run!”