As it was, he could only look on from afar and condemn the vagaries of "that dratted boy," prophesying disaster whenever he saw him and hoping that Sir Beverley might not live to see it.

Certainly it seemed as if Piers bore a charmed life, for, like his father before him, he risked it practically every day.
With sublime self-confidence, he laughed at caution, ever choosing the shortest cut, whatever it might entail; and it was remarkably seldom that he came to grief.
As he clattered into the stable-yard on that dark November evening, his face was sparkling with excitement as though he had drunk strong wine.

The animal he rode was covered with foam, and danced a springy war-dance on the stones.

Caesar trotted in behind them with tail erect and a large smile of satisfaction on his spotty face despite the gory streak upon his neck.
"Confound it! I'm late!" said Piers, throwing his leg over his horse's neck.

"It's all that brute's fault.