"To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus
And witch the world with noble horsemanship!"--_Shakespeare_.
The onlookers behaved in the orthodox runaway-horse manner.
Women screamed, or took the opportunity to manipulate a surreptitious
powder-puff.
Men shouted and waved their topees, or shouted and performed equestrian
gymnastics, and the jockeys _en masse_ cursed their masters' presence,
and the more or less mythical value of their respective mounts.
Just for that one moment in which anything occurring out of your
ordinary rut leaves you practically stunned into inertia.
Then things began to shape themselves, and for one unbelievable second
caste was thrown to the soft wind which was sweeping up the last rags
of mist.
Military mingled with commerce, the I.C.S. which, written in full,
means God's Anointed, looked _at_ instead of _through_ the railway;
jute condescended to the tourist, and white ejaculated to kaffyolay as
they all sat gazing after the retreating form of the Devil and the
pursuing shapes of one or two, who, fairly decently mounted, were
pegging away stout-heartedly in a perfectly vain, but praiseworthy
effort to save Leonie from certain death.
And then a sigh of relief went up.
A bay, stretched out, was flying like the wind, hoofs thundering on the
hard ground, tail streaming, as, urged by his master's heel and voice,
he strove to get to the tank before the runaway.
The distance and the speed were too great, the horse and kit were not
sufficiently familiar to allow the spectators to identify the one man
who seemed to have a plan in his head, and a horse under him.
The women strained their eyes in an endeavour to distinguish him, men
kept theirs glued to Leonie who was riding straight and apparently
making no effort to check the Devil, and policemen, forgetful of their
dignity, their status, and their red turbans, hung over the rails near
the grand-stand entrance with a riff-raff of taxi chauffeurs, pukka
chauffeurs and syce.
For the first two hundred yards across the brown grass of the Maidan,
Leonie thoroughly enjoyed the tearing gallop, having failed to grasp
the fact that the Devil was bolting; but after having spoken
soothingly, and pulled firmly without making any impression, somewhere
about the middle of the polo ground she awoke to the fact that
something had to be done.
"They're in it! No! missed, by Jove!"
The jockey bunched himself in an ecstasy of relief, and his mare danced
with a fellow-electrical feeling as the Devil, wheeling sharply from
the sparkling water in the tank, missed the lone tree by a foot; then
gathering fresh impetus from the ever-nearing sound of thudding hoofs,
tore towards the rails enclosing the two tracks.
They are not high, but they are fairly close together, and four in all,
and a horse, blind from fear or temper, is quite as likely to let you
down at the first as at the fourth.
But Jan Cuxson saw a gleam of hope.
Surely the runaway would slacken, surely no horse could possibly take
four fences at that terrific speed; and if he did slacken, then the
bay, as nimble as a cat in spite of his weight, would catch up, and
something would be done before they dashed headlong across the
tram-threaded, crowded Kidderpore Road.
Except for admiring her seat and seeming calm acceptance of her
inevitable and horrible end, he had not bothered about the girl as a
human being; but he frowned suddenly in a vague effort of recollection
when she stretched out her hand in a beckoning gesture for help to the
man she heard racing to her rescue.
"By Jove!" he cried, and "_By_ Jove!" repeated the others behind, and
"By _Jove_!" echoed the distant on-lookers as, without hesitation or
click of hoof on wood, the Devil rose to the first, the second, the
third and the fourth rail, skimming them like a bird, while the bay,
just two rails behind, crashed over them with nothing to spare.
Inky words take a long time to write, but Leonie's perilous career
towards the river was merely the matter of a few cyclonic minutes,
leaving the drivers of bullock and water-buffalo carts, _gharries_ and
trams no time in which to make an opening for her tempestuous passage.
"Wah! Wah!" shouted a group of natives, draped in gaily coloured
shawls, who watched admiringly the woman's perfect seat, caring not an
_anna_ that she might be thrown and break her neck or be crushed to
death. In fact, the halo of death encircling the woman's head lent
enchantment to the sport, causing some of the more wealthy to bet upon
her end.
A woman, white or brown, more or less in India of what account? though
it were a different matter in the case of the sahib who rode in
pursuit, with a mouth like a steel trap and eyes of fire.
Two women, with babes astraddle on the hip, turned to watch Leonie,
then stuffing more betel nut into their already crimson mouths, moved
lightly through the dust towards the bazaar. Crouched at the foot of a
tree, inhaling the smoke from the bowl of his rude native pipe, an old
man under the benign influence of the drug, lost in dreams, took no
notice whatever of the disturbance around him.
But the drivers, with raucous cries, twisted the tails of their kine to
port or starboard, or beat them forcibly, and the tram driver, roused
from the lethargy engendered by the cool of the early morning, by the
shouts and cries, put on his brake, bringing his tram to a stand-still
just as, with a terrific clatter of hoofs, Leonie dashed past the front
of it with Cuxson at her heels.
There was a moment's uproar when, wishing for a better view, the driver
of a tawdry _ekka_ urged his half-starved pony forward.
The bay caught the side of the pony's bleeding mouth, causing the
wretched animal to rear from pain and twist sideways into a bullock
cart.
In its usual leisurely way the bullock swung itself also sideways, and
almost under the bay's feet, causing him to lose a precious second, for
which Cuxson made up by a ruthless use of his spurs, whilst before
Leonie's eyes, quite close, through the trees, appeared the funnels and
masts of the river craft.
"Oh!" she said involuntarily, having retained no impression during her
motor drives of the road to Kidderpore; as the Devil tore with her
across the old polo ground and the old Ellenborough course, straight to
the crowded Strand Road.
And then she sighed a little sigh of relief, for the bay heaved
alongside and a hand stretched for her bridle.
Side by side they clattered across the Strand towards the Prinseps
Ghat, standing just as ostracised and white as the Marble Arch.
Would the two horses crash headlong into the columns, or would the
Devil yield in time to the strong hand pulling on the bit?
Neither.
Terrified by the shouts of the populace, and the shrill whistling from
the river, he raced along so close to the left side of the monument
that Cuxson's boot scratched against the stone.
But as they crashed across the Strand and the sharp incline on the
other side of the railway lines appeared, Cuxson, knowing that the
moment had arrived, dropped his reins, and gripping the bay with his
knees, leant over towards Leonie as she dropped her reins, and
loosening her grip on the pommel, prepared to break her neck or her
back or both as she slipped from the saddle.
Then she felt an arm round her waist.
She knew intuitively her rescuer's intention, _but_----!
Would a man's left arm be strong enough to lift her across her horse's
hind-quarters at the terrific speed they were going, combined with her
weight?
Would he be able to hold her until his horse slackened speed, or would
they both overbalance and hurtle to the ground together? Would there
be time to stop the horse, or would they all be hurled into the water?
The questions had hardly flashed through her mind when she felt herself
lifted and swung.
For one petrifying moment the bay, pulled savagely until blood stained
the bit, reared with its double weight within a yard of the steep
incline, then, yanked cruelly by its master, swung sideways and came
down; just as the Devil, striving at the last moment to check his wild
career, hesitated for one half-second, then, pushed by his own terrific
impetus, slid over the incline, and turning a complete somersault
backwards, crashed into the water.
* * * * * * * *
Leonie's scarlet mouth trembled, and her yellow-green eyes gleamed as
the man she loved pressed both her hands in his against his coat, until
the high relief of the button was marked upon her skin, even through
her glove.
"You," she said, so softly that the one note sounded like the chime of
a temple bell.
"You!" he said, giving her arms a little savage wrench, then letting
her go as the sound of approaching hoofs heralded the arrival of the
first of the hunt to be in at the averted death.
A score or more of natives in their vivid colours, which seem so atune
with all that has to do with love, mattered not at all; but Leonie
turned and pointed casually to the Devil, enjoying his matutinal bath,
as the boy flung himself from the discredited polo pony on which he had
done his best.
He seized both her hands and held them very tightly, then catching
sight of Cuxson, let them go suddenly.
"Of course!" he said, "of course you would--you lucky beggar!" Then
added triumphantly, "But anyway, _I_ told her so!"