towards Bonaventure he smelt the wind of home in his nostrils; his
hatchet head jerked till he got the bit straight between his teeth; then,
gripping it as a fretful dog clamps the bone which his master pretends to
wrest from him, he leaned down to his work, and the mud, the new-fallen
snow and the slush flew like dirty sparks, and covered man and horse.

Above, an uncertain, watery moon flew in and out among the shifting
clouds; and now and then a shot came through the mist and the half dusk,
telling of some poor fugitive fighting, overtaken, or killed.

The horse neither turned head nor slackened gait. He was like a living
machine, obeying neither call nor spur, but travelling with an unchanging
speed along the level road, and up and down hill, mile after mile.

In the rider's heart were a hundred things; among them fear, that
miserable depression which comes with the first defeats of life, the
falling of the mercury from passionate activity to that frozen numbness
which betrays the exhausted nerve and despairing mind. The horse could
not go fast enough; the panic of flight was on him. He was conscious of
it, despised himself for it; but he could not help it. Yet, if he were
overtaken, he would fight; yes, fight to the end, whatever it might be.
Nicolas Lavilette had begun to unwind the coil of fortune and ambition
which his mother had long been engaged in winding.

A mile or two behind was another horse and another rider. The animal was
clean of limb, straight and shapely of body, with a leg like a lady's,
and heart and wind to travel till she dropped. This mare the little
black notary, Shangois, had cheerfully stolen from beside the tent of the
English general. The bridle-rein hung upon the wrist of the notary's
palsied left hand, and in his right hand he carried the long sabre of an