Deveaux was
to remain behind in charge of the horses. With their bridle reins in
his hands he cheerfully maintained this position of trust, securely
sheltered from the full force of the elements. Right bravely did the
duke and his lordship venture forth into the spattering rain. They had
gone no more than three rods up the path when they were brought to a
halt by the sounds of a prodigious struggle behind them. There was a
great trampling of horses' hoofs, accompanied by the frantic shouts of
the count.
"I cannot hold zem! Mon Dieu! Zey are mad! Ho! Ho! Help!"
He was in truth having a monstrous unpleasant time. His two
friends stumbled to his assistance, but not in time to prevent the
catastrophe. The three horses had taken it into their heads to bolt
for home; they were plunging and pulling in three directions at the
same time, the count manfully clinging to the bridle reins, in great
danger of being suddenly and shockingly dismembered.
"Hold to 'em!" shouted Lord Cecil.
"Help!" shouted the count, at the same moment releasing his grip on
the reins. Away tore the horses, kicking great chunks of mud over him
as he tumbled aimlessly into the underbrush. Down the road clattered
the animals, leaving the trio marooned in the wilderness. Groaning and
half dead, the unfortunate count was dragged from the brush by his
furious companions. What the duke said to him was sufficient without
being repeated, here or elsewhere. The count challenged him as they
all resumed the march up the hill to visit the house with the lighted
windows.
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