'Gad, it looks like going at the fence.

Fancy Harrington!' They were now in the fourth field, a smooth shorn meadow.

Laxley was two clear lengths in advance, but seemed riding, as Mr.George remarked, more for pace than to take the jump.

The ladies kept plying random queries and suggestions: the Countess wishing to know whether they could not be stopped by a countryman before they encountered any danger.

In the midst of their chatter, Mr.George rose in his stirrups, crying: 'Bravo, the black mare!' 'Has he done it ?' said Andrew, wiping his poll.
'He?
No, the mare!' shouted Mr.George, and bolted off, no longer to be restrained.
The Countess, doubly relieved, threw herself back in the carriage, and Andrew drew a breath, saying: 'Evan has beat him--I saw that! The other's horse swerved right round.' 'I fear,' said Mrs.Evremonde, 'Mr.Harrington has had a fall.