Eve. S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould

asked the horseman.

      ‘Only a girl. Can I help? Is the man hurt?’

      ‘Hurt, of course. He hasn’t fallen into a feather bed, or—by good luck—into a furze brake.’

      The horse that had fallen struggled to rise.

      ‘Out of the way,’ said the man, ‘I must see that the brute does not trample on him.’ He helped the horse to his feet; the animal was much shaken and trembled.

      ‘Hold the bridle, girl.’ Barbara obeyed. Then the man went to his fallen comrade and spoke to him, but received no answer. He raised his arms, and tried if any bones were broken, then he put his hand to the heart. ‘Give the boy the bridle, and come here, you girl. Help me to loosen his neck-cloth. Is there water near?’

      ‘None; we are at the highest point of the moor.’

      ‘Damn it! There is water everywhere in over-abundance in this country, except where it is wanted.’

      ‘He is alive,’ said Barbara, kneeling and raising the head of the prostrate, insensible man. ‘He is stunned, but he breathes.’

      ‘Jasper!’ shouted the man who was unhurt, ‘for God’s sake, wake up. You know I can’t remain here all night.’

      No response.

      ‘This is desperate. I must press forward. Fatalities always occur when most inconvenient. I was born to ill-luck. No help, no refuge near.’

      ‘I am by as help; my home not far distant,’ said Barbara, ‘for a refuge.’

      ‘O yes—you! What sort of help is that? Your house! I can’t diverge five miles out of my road for that.’

      ‘We live not half an hour from this point.’

      ‘O yes—half an hour multiplied by ten. You women don’t know how to calculate distances, or give a decent direction.’

      ‘The blood is flowing from his head,’ said Barbara: ‘it is cut. He has fallen on a stone.’

      ‘What the devil is to be done? I cannot stay.’

      ‘Sir,’ said Barbara, ‘of course you stay by your comrade. Do you think to leave him half dead at night to the custody of two girls, strangers, on a moor?’

      ‘You don’t understand,’ answered the man; ‘I cannot and I will not stay.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘How far to your home?’

      ‘I have told you, half-an-hour.’

      ‘Honour bright—no more?’

      ‘I said, half-an-hour.’

      ‘Good God, Watt! always a fool?’ He turned sharply towards the lad who was seated on the stone. The boy had unslung a violin from his back, taken it from its case, had placed it under his chin, and drawn the bow across the strings.

      ‘Have done, Watt! Let go the horses, have you? What a fate it is for a man to be cumbered with helpless, useless companions.’

      ‘Jasper’s horse is lame,’ answered the boy, ‘so I have tied the two together, the sound and the cripple, and neither can get away.’

      ‘Like me with Jasper. Damnation—but I must go! I dare not stay.’

      The boy swung his bow in the moonlight, and above the raging of the wind rang out the squeal of the instrument. Eve looked at him, scared. He seemed some goblin perched on the stone, trying with his magic fiddle to work a spell on all who heard its tones. The boy satisfied himself that his violin was in order, and then put it once more in its case, and cast it over his back.

      ‘How is Jasper?’ he shouted; but the man gave him no answer.

      ‘Half-an-hour! Half an eternity to me,’ growled the man. ‘However, one is doomed to sacrifice self for others. I will take him to your house and leave him there. Who live at your house? Are there many men there?’

      ‘There is only old Christopher Davy at the lodge, but he is ill with rheumatics. My father is away.’ Barbara regretted having said this the moment the words escaped her.

      The stranger looked about him uneasily, then up at the moon. ‘I can’t spare more than half-an-hour.’

      Then Barbara said undauntedly, ‘No man, under any circumstances, can desert a fellow in distress, leaving him, perhaps, to die. You must lift him into our gig, and we will convey him to Morwell. Then go your way if you will. My sister and I will take charge of him, and do our best for him till you can return.’

      ‘Return!’ muttered the man scornfully. ‘Christian cast his burden before the cross. He didn’t return to pick it up again.’

      Barbara waxed wroth.

      ‘If the accident had happened to you, would your friend have excused himself and deserted you?’

      ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the man carelessly, ‘of course he would not.’

      ‘Yet you are eager to leave him.’

      ‘You do not understand. The cases are widely different.’ He went to the horses. ‘Halloo!’ he exclaimed as he now noticed Eve. ‘Another girl springing out of the turf! Am I among pixies? Turn your face more to the light. On my oath, and I am a judge, you are a beauty!’ Then he tried the horse that had fallen; it halted. ‘The brute is fit for dogs’ meat only,’ he said. ‘Let the fox-hounds eat him. Is that your gig? We can never lift my brother——’

      ‘Is he your brother?’

      ‘We can never pull him up into that conveyance. No, we must get him astride my horse; you hold him on one side, I on the other, and so we shall get on. Come here, Watt, and lend a hand; you help also, Beauty, and see what you can do.’

      With difficulty the insensible man was raised into the saddle. He seemed to gather some slight consciousness when mounted, for he muttered something about pushing on.

      ‘You go round on the further side of the horse,’ said the man imperiously to Barbara. ‘You seem strong in the arm, possibly stronger than I am. Beauty! lead the horse.’

      ‘The boy can do that,’ said Barbara.

      ‘He don’t know the way,’ answered the man. ‘Let him come on with your old rattletrap. Upon my word, if Beauty were to throw a bridle over my head, I would be content to follow her through the world.’

      Thus they went on; the violence, of the gale had somewhat abated, but it produced a roar among the heather and gorse of the moor like that of the sea. Eve, as commanded, went before, holding the bridle. Her movements were easy, her form was graceful. She tripped lightly along with elastic step, unlike the firm tread of her sister. But then Eve was only leading, and Barbara was sustaining.

      For some distance no one spoke. It was not easy to speak so as to be heard, without raising the voice; and now the way led towards the oaks and beeches and pines about Morwell, and the roar among the branches was fiercer, louder than that among the bushes of furze.

      Presently the man cried imperiously ‘Halt!’ and stepping forward caught the bit and roughly arrested the horse. ‘I am certain we are followed.’

      ‘What if we are?’ asked Barbara.

      ‘What if we are!’ echoed the man. ‘Why, everything to me.’ He put his hands against the injured man; Barbara was sure he meant to thrust him out of the saddle, leap into it himself, and make off. She said, ‘We are followed by the boy with our gig.’

      Then he laughed. ‘Ah! I forgot that. When a man has money about him and no firearms, he is nervous in such a blast-blown desert as this, where girls who may be decoys pop out of every furze bush.’

      ‘Lead on, Eve,’ said Barbara, affronted at his insolence. She was unable to resist the impulse to say, across the horse, ‘You are not ashamed to let two girls see that you are a coward.’

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