"Where?"

"Back there."

"What do you mean? did he get away from you?"

"He bolted," Cecil said.

"And threw you?"

Cecil nodded. "Yes--can't you see I'm limping?"

"Well, did he clear out again?"

"No--he's over there."

Jim's face went grim. "Do you mean--you don't mean the pony's HURT?"

"He won't get up," said Cecil, sullenly. "I've tried my best."

For a moment they faced each other, and then Cecil quailed under the younger boy's look. His eyes fell.

Jim jumped off. "Go on."

"Where?"

"Back to Bobs, of course. Hurry up!"

"I can't go back there," Cecil said, angrily. "I'm limping, and--"

"Do you think your limp matters an atom just now?" Jim said, through his teeth. "Hurry up."

He followed Cecil, not trusting himself to speak. A dull despair lay on his heart, and above everything a great wave of pity for the little sister across the paddock. If he could spare Norah--!

Then they were in the gully, and he saw Bobs above him, and knew in that instant that he could spare her nothing. The bay pony lay where he had fallen, his head flung outwards; helplessness in every line of the frame that had been a model of strength and beauty an hour ago. As Jim looked Bobs beat his head three times against the ground, and then lay still. The boy flung round, sick with horror.

"Why, you vile little wretch--you've killed him!"

He had Cecil in a grip of iron, shaking him as a dog shakes a rat--not knowing what he did in the sick fury that possessed him. Then suddenly he stopped and hurled him from him into the bracken. He ran down the gully.

"Go back, Norah dear--don't come."

Norah and Wally had come cantering quickly round the shoulder of the hill. She was laughing at something Wally had said as they rode into the gully, and the laugh was still on her lips as she looked at Jim.

Then she saw his face, and it died away.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Don't come, kiddie," the boy said, wretchedly. "Wally, you take her home."

"Why?" said Norah. "We saw Cecil--where's Bobs?" Her eyes were wandering round the gully. They pa.s.sed Cecil, lying on his face in the bracken, and travelled further up the hill. Then she turned suddenly white, and flung herself off Sirdar.

Jim caught her as she came blindly past him.

"Kiddie--it's no good--you mustn't!"

"I must," she said, and broke from him, running up the hillside. Jim followed her with a long stride, his arm round her as she stumbled through the ferns and boulders. When they came to Bobs he held her back for a moment.

The pony was nearly done. As they looked his head beat the ground again unavailingly, and at the piteous sight a dry sob broke from Norah, and she went on her knees by him.

"Norah--dear little chap--you mustn't." Jim's voice was choking. "He doesn't know what he's doing, poor old boy--it isn't safe."

"He wants me," she said. "Bobs--dear Bobs!"

At the voice he knew the pony quivered and struggled to rise. It was no use--he fell back, though the beautiful head lifted itself, and the brown eyes tried to find her. She sat down and took his head on her knee, stroking his neck and speaking to him... broken, pitiful words.

Presently she put her cheek down to him, and crouched there above him.

Something of his agony died out of Bobs' eyes. He did not struggle any more. After a little he gave a long shiver, straightening out; and so died, gently.

"Come on home, old kiddie."

It seemed a long time after, Norah could not think of a time when she had done anything but sit with that quiet head on her knee. She shuddered all over.

"I can't leave him."

"You must come, dear." Jim's hands were lifting Bobs' head as tenderly as she herself could have done it. He picked her up and held her as though she had been a baby, and she clung to him, shaking.

"If I could help you!" he said, and there were tears in his eyes. "Oh, Nor.--you know, don't you?"

He felt her hand tighten on his arm. Then he carried her down the hill, where Garryowen stood waiting.

"The others have gone," he said. "I sent them home--Wally and--that brute! I've told him to go--I'll kill him if I see him again!" He lifted her into his saddle, and keeping his arms round her, walked beside the bay horse down the gully and out upon the plain.

"Jim," she whispered--somewhere her voice had gone away--"you can't go home like that. Let me walk." His arm tightened.

"I'm all right," he said--"poor little mate!"

They did not speak again until they were nearly home--where, ahead, Brownie waited, her kind eyes red; while every man about the homestead was near the gate, a stern-faced, angry group that talked in savage undertones. Murty came forward as Jim lifted Norah down.

"Miss Norah," he said. "Miss Norah, dear--sure I'd sooner--"

The tall fellow's voice broke as he looked at the white, childish face.

"Thanks, Murty," Norah said steadily.

"And--all of you." She turned from the pitying faces, and ran indoors.

"Oh, Brownie, don't let any one see me!"