when the mare, out of control and mad with excitement, tried a fence
topping a bank, failed, and fell with Christabel beneath her.

On the ground there was a flurry of white and black, and then
stillness, while over the fields the hounds and the foremost riders
went like things seen in a dream, with the same callousness, the same
speed.

Rose saw men dismount and run towards the queer, ugly muddle on the
grass. She dismounted, too, and gave her horse to somebody to hold,
but she did nothing. Other, more capable people were before her, and
it struck her at that moment, while a bird in a bare hedge set up a
short chirrup of surprise, how little used she was to action. She
seemed to be standing alone in the big field: the rest was a picture
with which she had nothing to do. There was a busy group near the
fence, some men came running with a door, and then the sound of a shot
broke through her numbness. The mare had been put out of her pain; but
what of Christabel?

She hurried forward; she heard some one say, 'Ah, here's Miss
Mallett,' and she answered vaguely, 'Men are gentler.' But as they
lifted Christabel, Rose held one of her hands. It felt lifeless; she
looked small and broken; she made no sound.

'She's not conscious,' a man said, and at that she opened her eyes.

'My God, she's got some pluck!' Francis said. 'My God--'

She smiled at him, and he dropped behind with a gesture of despair.