Ten minutes after, he began to be convinced, and coming to a clearer place where there was a pretence of a bit of green sward, the cob broke into a canter of its own will, which brought its rider a good deal nearer to the figure trudging in the same direction.

Then the cob dropped into a walk again, picking its way among great blocks of stone; and Mark was certain now that it was Ralph Darley, with creel on back, and rod over his shoulder, evidently returning from one of the higher streams after a day's fishing.
Mark's heart beat a little faster, and he nipped his cob's sides; but the patient animal would not alter its steady walk, which was at about the same rate as the fisher's, and consequently Mark had to sit and watch his enemy's back, as, unconscious of his presence, Ralph trudged on homeward, with one arm across his back to ease up the creel, which was fairly heavy with the delicate burden of grayling it contained, the result of a very successful day.
"He has his sword on this time," said Mark to himself, "and I've got mine." The lad touched the hilt, to make sure it had not been jerked out of the scabbard during his ride.
"Just a bit farther on yonder," he muttered, gazing at the steep slope of a limestone hill to his right, and a mile distant, "there are some nice level bits of turf.

I can overtake him then, and we can have a bit of a talk together." The cob walked steadily on, avoiding awkward places better than his master could have guided him, and suddenly stopped short at a rocky pool, where a little spring of water gushed from the foot of a steep slope, and lowered its head to drink.
"You don't want water now," said Mark angrily; and he tightened the rein, but his cob had a mouth like leather; and caring nothing for the bit, bore upon it heavily, stretched out his neck, and had a long deep drink.
"I wish I had spurs on," muttered Mark; "I'd give you a couple of such digs, my fine fellow." Then he sat thinking.
"Good job I haven't got any on.

I should trip, for certain, when we were at it." Then the cob raised its dripping mouth, which it had kept with lips very close together, to act as a strainer to keep out tadpoles, water-beetles, leeches, or any other unpleasant creatures that might be in the water, took two or three steps back and aside, and then, noticing that there was a goodly patch of rich juicy herbage close by the spring, it lowered its head once more, uttered a snort as it blew the grass heavily, to drive off any flies that might be nestling among the strands, and began to crop, crop at the rich feed.
"Oh come, I'm not going to stand that," cried Mark, dragging at the pony's head.

"You're so full of oats now that you can hardly move, and he'll be looking back directly, and thinking I'm afraid to come on." The cob's head was up: so was its obstinate nature.