A BLOODY HAND.
The effect on Anthony's horse was instantaneous. With a snort it bounded
into the air, threw back its head, then kicked out and began to dance
and revolve, put its head down between the fore-legs, then reared into
the air, every violent motion fanning the burning bunch of amadou into
stronger heat.
Anthony was taken by surprise, but maintained his seat. The horse
quickly scattered those around. One man, struck by the hoofs, was drawn
away in a state of unconsciousness. Some men were driven in among the
enclosed ponies, but quickly ran away; and, in less time than it takes
to write, the circle of lookers-on had reformed, enclosing Anthony on
his maddened steed in the same arena with the wild cobs and colts.
A scene of indescribable confusion ensued. The tortured horse bounded in
among the throng of ponies, and threw them, if possible, into wilder
disorder. All that could be seen for some moments was a tumult of heads,
flying manes, hoofs, beasts leaping on and over each other, and Anthony
with difficulty, and in extreme danger, carried up and down above the
sea of horses' heads and heels. If he had fallen, his brains would have
been dashed out in one minute. He knew this, and endeavoured to force
his horse by deep spur out of the tangle; but, agonised by the fire in
its ear, it disregarded rein and spur. Of its own accord, however, it
disengaged itself, or by chance found itself free for an instant from
the surrounding tossing, plunging mass of its fellows; and then, with a
scream rather than a snort, it dashed right among the surrounding men.
They divided at once--not a man ventured forward to catch the rein and
stay the mad beast.
In front was the river, with the low wall of the bridge over it, and
under the arch, among huge masses of granite, leaped, and roared, and
tumbled the Walla, as mad as the frightened moorland ponies--of a rich
brown, but transparent, colour, where not whipped into foam.
Anthony's horse was dashing at the wall. The brute's head was now round
biting itself, then down between its fore-hoofs, in a frantic paroxysm
of kicks. Then it rushed forward, halted, spun round, then leaped with
all four feet into the air, uttering screams. Everyone was cowed--no one
dared approach, and yet the situation of Anthony was critical. Another
bound, maybe, and his horse would be over the wall, and roll with him
among the masses of rock big as haystacks, over and among which the
river dashed itself to threads and flakes of foam, or went down into one
of the wine-dark pools, where the eddies swirled and dissolved their
foam before taking another leap.
Instinctively, overawed by one of those waves of feeling which come on
men and beasts alike, all sounds ceased, the men no longer spoke, nor
did the dogs bark. Only the churning of the colts' and ponies' feet was
heard within the living ring of men, and the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of a
sheep-bell beyond the river.
The horse was rearing to leap.
At that moment--a shot, and the horse fell like lead. Urith had snatched
the pistol from the holster of her uncle's saddle, had leaped to the
ground, run forward, and fired.
Silence remained as unbroken as before, save for the tinkle of the
sheep-bell, till Anthony disengaged himself from his fallen horse,
stood up, shook himself, and then a cheer burst from all the men
present, who pressed forward to congratulate him.
"Stay!" said Urith, still on the bridge, and with the pistol in her
hand. She was white with emotion, and her eyes flaming with wrath.
"Listen to me--you--all of you. I saw him do it--I saw him light a ball
of tinder and thrust it into the horse's ear, to drive the beast mad."
She looked round--her flashing eyes sought out him of whom she spoke.
"I saw him do it, when all were looking elsewhere after their cobs. He
hated him, and he sought this mean, this cruel, this treacherous revenge
on him."
She panted, her heart was beating furiously, and the blood rushed to her
temples, and then ebbed away again, leaving her giddy.
"Take him!" she cried. "He deserves it. Take him and fling him among the
horses, and let them trample him down into the dirt. The man who did
what he has done deserves no better."
"Who!--who!--name!" shouted the bystanders.
"Who it was who did this? Did I not name him? It is he." She had caught
sight of him with his bandaged eye. "Bring him forward--Fox Crymes."
In a moment Fox was hustled forth out of the throng into the foreground.
"I would," gasped Urith, in quivering fury, "that I had another pistol,
and I would shoot you as I have the horse, base, vile coward."
Fox looked at her contemptuously out of his one eye. "It is well that
none is in your hand--a maniac should not be trusted with firearms, or
should practise them on herself."
"What has he done?" shouted Farmer Cudlip. "What is the charge against
him?"
"I say," answered Urith, "that whilst all were engaged looking for their
colts, I saw him light a piece of tinder with flint and steel, and then
thrust it into the ear of the horse."
Silence followed this announcement. The men had been too surprised to
follow her charge when first made.
"What do you say to that, Master Crymes?" asked Cudlip.
"It is a lie," retorted Fox. "She did it herself, so as to make a
spectacle and appear as the preserver of her lover."
Again silence, save only for the trampling of the enringed ponies. The
sheep-bell had ceased; maybe the sheep that bore the bell was lying
down.
Urith spoke slowly, in her deepest tones.
"On the moor there is no law--or only the plain law of God that all can
understand and obey. He is a murderer in heart. He tried to kill Anthony
Cleverdon, and now he--coward that he is--insults me. Take him up and
throw him among the horses."
At once a score of hands were laid on Fox Crymes. It was true, there was
no law on the moor. There every man was a law unto himself. The Stannary
Court sat but once in the year on the top of one of the central Tors,
but that took cognisance only of offences against the mining laws. There
was no criminal jurisdiction over the moor lodged anywhere--or, it was
supposed that there was none. But then--crime was unknown on Dartmoor.
When an act of violence is to be done, especially when sanctioned by
some rough rule of justice, there is no lack of hands to commit it.
Fox Crymes was generally disliked, his stinging tongue, his lack of
geniality had alienated every acquaintance from him; the farmers present
were rude men of the moor confines, brought under little or no control,
kings on their own estate, and free of the moor to do thereon what they
listed, take thence what they desired, fight thereon any with whom they
were at feud, avenge themselves with their own arms for any wrong done
to them. Never had a lawyer been invoked to unravel a doubtful claim, or
to settle a dispute. Every knot was, if not cut through with a sword, at
all events beaten out with the quarterstaff; and every dispute brought
to an end by silencing one side with a bludgeon or a pistol.
In one moment, Fox Crymes was caught up, with a roar of many voices
giving consent to the execution of the sentence pronounced by Urith, at
once accuser and judge.
"Hold off!" cried Fox, and drew his knife; freeing himself by a twist
of the body from those who held him, and who shrank back at the flash of
steel.
His one eye glared. "I will drive it up to the haft in the first man who
touches me!" he said.
"Strike it out o' his hand!" shouted Cudlip.
Fox, stabbing with his blade to right and left, backed from his
assailants towards the wall. Cudgels were raised and aimed at him, but
he dexterously withdrew his arm as each descended. The sight of the
drawn weapon kindled the blood of the moor men, and those who had held
back at first, now pressed forward to take him.
A shout! the colts and horses had made a rush, a dash, and had broken
through the ring. It was quickly reformed, and away after those who had
escaped rushed some of the men with their whips whirled about their
heads.
This caused a momentary diversion. Anthony took advantage to leave his
place by the fallen horse, come forward, and with his elbows force his
way through to Crymes, and then, planting himself between Fox and his
assailants, he shouted:
"No harm has been done. It was a joke. He and I had sport together, and
I hit him in the eye and hurt him; he knows I never designed to injure
him. Now he tried a merry prank on me. He designed no hurt to me--but it
has gone further than he would, as did mine with him. Hands off--here,
Fox, show them we bear each other no malice--here before all, give me
your right hand, good friend."
Crymes held back.
Cudgels were lowered, and the men drew away.
Fox slipped his hunting-knive up his sleeve, and sullenly extended his
arm.
"You see!" called Anthony, looking round, and not regarding Crymes. "You
see! We are good friends, and hearty comrades."
Then he clasped the right hand of Fox. As he did so, the blade slipped
down the sleeve into the hand of Crymes, and as Anthony clenched his
fingers about those of Fox, they closed on the blade in his hand, which
was keen, and cut. He felt the knife, but he did not relax his grasp,
and when he drew his hand away it was covered with blood.
"It was a mischance," said Crymes, with a malicious laugh. "You did not
give me time to sheath the knife."
"Many a mischance falls between us," answered Anthony, hastily, drawing
his glove over the wounded hand, lest it should attract attention.
Then he strode up to Urith, who stood palpitating near.
"I have saved you from yourself to-day," he said.
"Yes--I thank you."
"You can thank me but in one way."
"How so?"
"Give me your hand. Take me forever."
She put her hand into his: "I cannot help myself," she said, in a low
tone. "Oh, mother, forgive."
Then she loosed her hand, looked on it, and said, "There is blood!"
The blood had oozed through his glove.
"It is my blood," answered Anthony, "on your hand."