The horseman came
galloping up on the right side, shouted to Desmond to stop, and without
waiting drew level with the box and fired point blank.
But the rapid movement of his horse and the swaying of the carriage
forbade him to take careful aim. Desmond felt the wind of the bullet as
it whizzed past him. Next moment he leaned slightly sidewise, and, never
loosening his hold on the reins with his left hand, he brought the
weighty butt of his whip with a rapid cut, half sidewise, half downwards,
upon the horseman's head. The man with a cry swerved on the saddle;
almost before Desmond could recover his balance he was amazed to see the
horse dash suddenly to the right, spring across the ditch, and gallop at
full speed across the heath.
But he had no time at the moment to speculate on this very easy victory.
The horses, alarmed by the pistol shot, were plunging madly, dragging the
vehicle perilously near to the ditch on the left hand. Then Desmond's
familiarity with animals, gained at so much cost to himself on his
brother's farm, bore good fruit. He spoke to the horses soothingly,
managed them with infinite tact, and coaxed them into submission. Then he
let them have their heads, and they galloped on at speed, pausing only
when they reached the turnpike going into Brentford. They were then in a
bath of foam; their flanks heaving like to burst.
Learning from the turnpike man that he could obtain a change of horses at
the "Bull" inn, Desmond drove there, and was soon upon his way again.
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