“Mr. Wentworth, I could not, for a moment, think of surrendering my ring to you.”
“I’ll make it a hundred, if you like,” persisted Philip.
“No, sir; I would not part with it at any price.”
Philip Wentworth’s face grew livid with mingled rage and disappointment.
“—— you, for an obstinate upstart!” he exclaimed furiously, and, lifting his slender cane high above his head, he dealt Clifford’s horse a fierce and stinging blow upon the thigh. It was a terrible shock to the beautiful and spirited creature, who scarce ever had known the touch of a lash. With a snort of fear he wheeled, sprang erect upon his hind legs, and the next moment was pawing the air on the very edge of that almost perpendicular precipice.
CHAPTER IX.
PHILIP WENTWORTH FINDS AMUSEMENT.
Clifford was in fearful danger for one awful moment, as the horse hung swaying on the brow of the precipice, and, seemingly, about to be dashed over the edge and down upon the rocks below.
To all appearance horse and rider were doomed—their fate sealed. But with a dexterous movement the young man drew his bridle taut, his fingers gripping it like claws of steel, his muscles unyielding as iron, and thus he held the animal poised in the air for a brief instant, like a statue, but for his frightened trembling; then, pulling sharply upon the bit with his left hand, he swung him around and away from the frightful chasm, and eased him down until one forefoot touched the ground, when the intelligent creature helped himself farther away from his dangerous position, though still snorting and quivering in every limb from fear.