The Bars of Iron. Ethel M. Dell

what Sir Beverley would have done had he been left to settle the matter in his own way. She was horribly afraid, but she certainly would never have yielded to aught but brute force.

      But at this juncture there came a sudden diversion. Another voice made itself heard in furious protest. Another horse was spurred forward; and Piers, white to the lips, with eyes of awful flame, leaned from his saddle and with his left hand caught Sir Beverley's bridle, dragging his animal back.

      What he said Avery did not hear; it was spoken under his breath. But she saw a terrible look flash like an evil spirit into Sir Beverley's face. She saw his right arm go up, and heard his riding-crop descend with a sound like a pistol-shot upon Piers' shoulders.

      It was a horrible sight and one which she was never to forget. Both horses began to leap madly, the one Sir Beverley rode finally rearing and being pulled down again by Piers who hung on to the bridle like grim death, his head bent, his shoulders wholly exposed to those crashing merciless blows.

      They reeled away at length through the crowd, which scattered in dismay to let them pass, but for many seconds it seemed to Avery that the awful struggle went on in the dusk as Piers dragged his grandfather from the spot.

      A great weakness had begun to assail her. Her knees were quivering under her. She wondered what the next move would be, and felt utterly powerless to put forth any further effort. And then she heard Ina Rose's clear young voice.

      "Barchard, take the hounds back to kennels! I'm sure we've all had enough for one day."

      "Hear, hear!" said a man in the crowd.

      And Ina laughed. "Thank you, Dick! Come along, Dad! Leave the horrid old fox alone! Don't you think we ought to go and separate Sir Beverley and Piers? What an old pepper-pot he is!"

      "Piers isn't much better," remarked the man she had called Dick. His proper appellation was Richard Guyes, but his friends never stood on ceremony with him.

      The girl laughed again inconsequently. She was spoken of by some as the spoilt beauty of the county. "Oh, Piers is stuffed tight with gunpowder as everybody knows. He explodes at a touch. Get along, Barchard! What are you waiting for? I told you to take the hounds home."

      Barchard looked at the Colonel.

      "I suppose you'd better," the latter said. He threw a glance of displeasure at Avery. "It's a most unheard of affair altogether, but I admit there's not much to be said for a kill in cold blood. Yes, take 'em home!"

      Barchard made a savage cut at two of the hounds who were scratching and whimpering at a tiny chink in the boarding, and with surly threats collected the pack and moved off.

      The rest of the field melted away into the deepening dusk. Ina and Dick

       Guyes were among the last to go. They moved off side by side.

      "It'll be the laugh of the county," the man said, "but, egad, I like her pluck."

      And in answer the girl laughed again, a careless, merry laugh. "Yes, I wonder who she is. A friend of Piers' apparently. Did you see what a stiff fury he was in?"

      "It was a fairly stiff flogging," remarked Guyes. "Ye gods! I wonder how he stood it."

      "Oh, Piers can stand anything," said Ina unconcernedly. "He's as strong as an ox."

      The voices dwindled and died in the distance. The dusk deepened. A sense of utter forlornness, utter weariness, came upon Avery. The struggle was over, and she had emerged triumphant; but it did not seem to matter. She could think only of those awful blows raining down upon the defenceless shoulders of the boy who had championed her. And, leaning there in the drizzling wet, she covered her face with her hands and wept.

CHAPTER XI

       Table of Contents

      THE STAR OF HOPE

      There came the swift drumming of galloping hoofs, the check and pause of a leap, and then close at hand the thud of those same hoofs landing on the near side of the hedge. The rider slithered to the ground, patted the animal's neck, and turned forthwith towards the hut. Avery heard nought of his coming. She was crying like a weak, unnerved woman, draggled and mud-spattered, unspeakably distressed. It was so seldom that she gave way that perhaps the failure of her self-control was the more absolute when it came. She had been tried beyond her strength. Body and mind were alike exhausted.

      But when strong arms suddenly encircled her and she found herself drawn close to a man's breast, quick and instinctive came the impulse to resist. She drew back from him with a sharp exclamation.

      "It's only me," said Piers. "Surely you don't mind me!"

      It was naively expressed, so naively that she assayed to laugh in the midst of her woe. "Oh, how you startled me!" was all she found to say.

      "But surely you knew I was coming back!" he said.

      The dogged note was in his voice. It embarrassed her subtly. Seeing his face through the deepening gloom, it seemed to her to be set in stern, unyielding lines.

      She collected her scattered forces, and gently put his arms away from her. "It was very kind of you, Mr. Evesham," she said. "But please remember that I'm not Jeanie!"

      He made an impulsive movement of impatience. "I never pretended you were," he said gruffly. "But you were crying, weren't you? Why were you crying?"

      His tone was almost aggressive. He seemed to be angry, but whether with her, himself, or a third person, Avery could not determine.

      She decided that the situation demanded firmness, and proceeded to treat it accordingly.

      "I was very foolish to cry," she said. "I have quite recovered now, so please forget it! It was very kind of you to take my part a little while ago—especially as you couldn't have been really in sympathy with me. Thank you very much!"

      Again he made that gesture of imperious impatience. "Oh, don't be so beastly formal! I can't stand it. If it had been any other man threatening you, I believe I should have killed him!"

      He spoke with concentrated passion, but Avery was resolved not to be tragic. She was striving to get back to wholesome commonplace.

      "What a good thing it wasn't!" she said. "I shouldn't have cared to have been responsible for that. I had quite enough to answer for as it was. I hope you will make peace with your grandfather as soon as possible."

      Piers laughed a savage laugh. "He broke his whip over me. Do you think

       I'm going to make peace with him for that?"

      "Oh, Piers!" she exclaimed in distress.

      It was out before she could check it—that involuntary use of his Christian name for which it seemed to her afterwards he had been deliberately lying in wait.

      He did not take immediate advantage of her slip, but she knew that he noticed it, registered it as it were for future reference.

      "No," he said moodily, after a pause. "I don't think the debt is on my side this time. He had the satisfaction of flogging me with the whole Hunt looking on." There was sullen resentment in his tone, and then very suddenly to Avery's amazement he began to laugh. "It was worth it anyway, so we won't cavil about the price. How much longer are you going to bottle up that unfortunate brute? Don't you think it's time he went home to his wife?"

      Avery moved away from the shutter against which she had stood so long. "I couldn't let him be killed," she said. "You won't understand, of course. But I simply couldn't."

      "Why shouldn't I understand?" said Piers. "You threw that in my teeth before. I don't know why."

      His tone baffled her. She could not tell whether he spoke in jest or earnest. She refrained from answering him, and in the silence that followed he lifted the shutter away from the hut entrance