Norling Parva. Far ahead of him he could see at the turn, now and
again, a figure running. Something had happened. His heart grew
cold: he knew as well as though he had seen it, the high cart
swaying on one wheel round the corner as the maddened horses tore on
their way; the one jerk too much, and the momentary reaction in the
crash! . . .

With beating heart and eyes aflame in his white face he dashed on.

It was all too true. By the side of the roadway on the inner curve
lay the cart on its side with broken shafts. The horses were
prancing and stamping about along the roadway not recovered from
their fright. Each was held by several men.

And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had been
thrown out. Rowly, who had of course been on the off-side, had been
thrown furthest. His head had struck the milestone that stood back
on the waste ground before the ditch. There was no need for any one
to tell that his neck had been broken. The way his head lay on one
side, and the twisted, inert limbs, all told their story plainly
enough.

Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out. Some one had raised him
to a sitting posture and then lowered him again, straightening his
limbs. He did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but there
were signs of coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze of
blood from nostrils and ears as well as mouth. Harold knelt down by
him at once and examined him. Those who were round all knew him and
stood back. He felt the ribs and limbs; so far as he could ascertain
by touch no bone was broken.