would be beside him; the bloodshot eyes of the mare were blinded with the foam flung off the Monarch's curb, and his own arm was stretched to seize his assassin and hurl him out to the waters boiling beneath, or tread him down on the rock under his feet, while he wrung out his confession in the terror of death. He leaned from his saddle; his hand all but grasped his enemy in a hold Phaulcon could no more have shaken off than he could have loosened the grip of an eagle, or the fangs of a lion: he was even with him» and had run him to earth in that wild night race. Then—suddenly, with a swerve and a plunge as the spurs tore her reeking flanks—the mare was lifted to a mad leap, a wall of marble gleaming white in the starlight, and rising straight in face of the sea; she cleared it with a bound of agony, and the dull crash that smote the silence as she fell, told the price with which she paid that gallant effort of brute life.
His foe was lost.
A fierce oath broke from bis lips and rang over the seas. As he put the Monarch at the leap, he reared and refused it; a second was already lost, and eternity in value to him whom he pursued. His face grew dark—all that was worst in him was
