artillery officer, which he had picked up on the battlefield. He rode
like a monkey clinging to the back of a hound, his shoulder hunched, his
body bent forward even with the mare's neck, his knees gripping the
saddle with a frightened tenacity, his small, black eyes peering into the
darkness before him, and his ears alert to the sound of pursuers.

Twenty men of the British artillery were also off on a chase that pleased
them well. The hunt was up. It was not only the joy of killing, but the
joy of gain, that spurred them on; for they would have that little black
thief who stole the general's brown mare, or they would know the reason
why.

As the night wore on, Lavilette could hear hoof-beats behind him; those
of the mare growing clearer and clearer, and those of the artillerymen
remaining about the same, monotonously steady. He looked back, and saw
the mare lightly leaning to her work, and a little man hanging to her
back. He did not know who it was; and if he had known he would have
wondered. Shangois had ridden to camp to fetch him back to Bonaventure
for two purposes: to secure the five thousand dollars from Ferrol, and to
save Nic's sister from marrying a highwayman. These reasons he would
have given to Nic Lavilette, but other ulterior and malicious ideas were
in his mind. He had no fear, no real fear. His body shrank, but that
was because he had been little used to rough riding and to peril. But he
loved this game too, though there was a troop of foes behind him; and as
long as they rode behind him he would ride on.

He foresaw a moment when he would stop, slide to the ground, and with his
sabre kill one man--or more. Yes, he would kill one man. He had a
devilish feeling of delight in thinking how he would do it, and how red
the sabre would look when he had done it. He wished he had a hundred