He was one of the grandest animals I'd ever seen, and I afterwards found he was better than he looked.

He came stepping down that beastly rocky goat-track, he, a clean thoroughbred that ought never to have trod upon anything rougher than a rolled training track, or the sound bush turf.

And here he was with a heavy weight on his back--a half-dead, fainting man, that couldn't hold the reins--and him walking down as steady as an old mountain bull or a wallaroo on the side of a creek bank.
I hadn't much time to look him over.

I was too much taken up with the rider, who was lying forward on his chest across a coat rolled round and strapped in front of the saddle, and his arms round the horse's neck.

He was as pale as a ghost.