“Go along away out of that,” said he, when my lady was fairly perched on the saddle; “the mare’s enough to fright her without you.”
“Get you up on Paddy,” said I, “and don’t talk to me.—So, steady there, Juno lass.—Hold her gently, Miss Kit.”
Martin, muttering to himself, let go the mare’s head and walked over to where Paddy stood.
Just then, as luck would have it, out came Con the dog with a joyous yap.
This sudden noise was too much for the courage of Juno, who, feeling her head free and only a light weight on her back, gave a wild plunge, and next moment was away at a gallop out of the yard gate and down the avenue.
It was no time for halting. The mare must be caught before she could reach the cliffs, or to a certainty she and her rider were doomed.
Martin stood with his hand on Paddy’s mane, gaping after the runaway.
With a sudden spring I dashed him aside and vaulted into the saddle, and before he could expostulate or guess what had happened I was away in full chase.
Even in the terror of the moment I could not help laughing to myself at the thought of poor Martin tumbling across the stable-yard, and finding himself out of the hunt. After that he would at least deign to recognise Barry Gallagher.
Though scarcely half-a-minute had elapsed, Juno and her precious burden were at the end of the long avenue before I was at the beginning of it. Paddy, amazed at all the excitement, lost some seconds in plunging before I could induce him to lay himself out for the pursuit. Then, to do him justice, he needed little coaxing from me. If only his wind was as long as his stride, this hue and cry might prove a holiday freak. If not—