The dragoons were careering over the field, one of fifteen to twenty acres, but it was hard work for the horses, so spongy was the soil; and Pip Beamish ran before them without greatly exerting himself.
The dragoons on the drove, at the command of the colonel, drew up in line, and watched the chase.
'They will never catch him,' repeated Drownlands; 'they never can. Give orders that he be shot.'
'I cannot do that,' said the officer in command. 'They will outstrip and head him shortly.'
'They never will. You do not know the Fens.'
In another moment Beamish was seen to plant a long pole he was carrying, swing himself aloft easily and gracefully, and fall lightly on his feet on the farther side of the dyke limiting the field.
One of the dragoon's horses floundered and rolled over in the soft soil, but the other was close behind Beamish. It rose, and in a moment vanished along with its rider in the dyke. The hind feet had found nothing substantial on which to obtain the necessary purchase for a leap across the water, and the beast and rider had fallen into the stagnant, slimy liquid that filled the ditch.
In spite of discipline, oaths and curses broke from the dragoons who were looking on.
'I knew it,' said Drownlands. 'Why did you not shoot? If that horse hasn't broke his back it is a lucky job. Now Pip Beamish is beyond reach, beyond gunshot, and it will take a day to get the horse dug out.'