The Spanish Bride Read Free

rabbit-hole, and came down heavily, and rolled over Harry.
    Stewart was up with him in a flash, and had leapt out of the saddle, all thought of the hare forgotten. ‘Oh you fool, you damned fool!’ he said, on his knees beside Harry’s inanimate body.
    ‘Is he dead?’ Eeles asked anxiously.
    ‘No—yes—I don’t know!’ replied Stewart, ripping open Harry’s tight green jacket. ‘No, I can feel his heart beating! Harry! Come on, old fellow, wake up! Open your eyes, now!’ It was soon seen that such adjurations were of no avail. When they raised him, Harry’s head lolled alarmingly, and although Eeles, who boasted a rough knowledge of surgery, pronounced that no bones were broken, no amount of coaxing, of chafing of hands, of slapping of cheeks, produced any sign of returning consciousness. ‘It’s no use: we shall have to bleed him,’ said Stewart. ‘Try some brandy!’ urged Eeles, pulling a flask out of his pocket. The brandy ran out of the corners of Harry’s mouth. ‘Oh, Harry, why will you be such a careless devil?’ Eeles said distractedly. ‘It all comes of trying to head the hare! Damned unsportsmanlike! I told him not to!’
    ‘Never mind talking! You hold him, while I bleed him!’ said Stewart. Eeles made a knee for Harry’s slight, wiry frame, while Stewart pulled his jacket off. A whip-thong made a serviceable tourniquet about one limp arm, and Stewart had just opened a blunt-looking pocket-knife, and had made a slight incision with it in the flesh, when Harry’s head, which was resting on Eele’s shoulder, moved, and Eeles, eyeing Stewart’s preparations with some misgiving, cried: ‘Stop! Wait a minute, he’s coming round!’ A drop or two of blood welled up from the scratch on Harry’s arm; his eyes opened, blurred and dazed for a few instants, but regaining brightness and clarity in surprisingly little time. They blinked up into Stewart’s anxious face, travelled to the knife in his hand, and widened. The next instant, Harry had leapt to his feet, rather shaky still, but in full possession of his faculties. ‘Keep off, you villain!’ he exclaimed, swaying on his feet. ‘What the devil—?’ He became aware of the thong bound round his upper arm, and plucked at it, weakly laughing, ‘God save me from my friends! Why, you old murderer! Oh, look! If I’m not bleeding to death! Where’s Moro?’
    In the agitation of the moment, his friends had forgotten both hare and hounds, but at this inquiry they looked round involuntarily, to find that the sagacious hound, Moro, had killed the hare without any assistance from his master. Relief made them scold, but Harry, dabbing at the scratch on his arm with his handkerchief, was quite unrepentant, and merely abused the clumsiness of his horse.
    Paddy, having picked himself up, was quietly grazing a few yards away. While agreeing that he was the clumsiest brute alive, Stewart told Harry that he deserved to be dead. But Harry was making much of Moro, and paid no attention to him. It was evident that he had sustained no serious injury, for though dizzy at first, he soon declared himself to be well enough to mount, and ride back to camp.
    ‘What made you buy a stupid brute like this?’ demanded Stewart, leading Paddy up to him. ‘What’s wrong with Tiny? He’d not let you down like that!’
    ‘Strained a tendon,’ replied Harry, hoisting himself into the saddle. Stewart cast his eyes up to heaven. ‘Ridden him to death, I suppose!’ ‘Will you stop scolding?’ retaliated Harry. ‘There’s no harm done, I tell you! What’s the time? Oh, by God, I shall be late! Come on, Charlie!’
    ‘The luckiest devil in the whole army!’ said Stewart. 3
    His fall seemed to have no ill-effect upon Harry; he was, in fact, not a penny the worse for it; and the hare which Moro had caught made an excellent soup. Stewart prophesied an aching head and bruised bones next day, but he was wrong. A little thing like a tumble from his horse could not