"What is it? Where are you going?" asked the O'Moore, who was the appointed steward.
"I have forgotten—" What, they did not catch; the word was lost on the air.
"It is bad luck to turn back," called out Maude. "You won't win."
He was already half-way to the house. A couple of minutes after entering it he reappeared again, and came flying down the slopes at full speed. Suddenly his foot slipped, and he fell to the ground. The only one who saw the accident was Mr. O'Moore; the general attention at that moment being concentrated upon the river. He hastened back. Hartledon was then gathering himself up, but slowly.
"No damage," said he; "only a bit of a wrench to the foot. Give me your arm for a minute, O'Moore. This ground must be slippery from yesterday's rain."
Mr. O'Moore held out his arm, and Hartledon took it. "The ground is not slippery, Hart; it's as dry as a bone."
"Then what caused me to slip?"
"The rate you were coming at. Had you not better give up the contest, and rest?"
"Nonsense! My foot will be all right in the skiff. Let us get on; they'll all be out of patience."
When it was seen that something was amiss with him, that he leaned rather heavily on the O'Moore, eager steps pressed round him. Lord Hartledon laughed, making light of it; he had been so clumsy as to stumble, and had twisted his ankle a little. It was nothing.