I make another effort, sawing the mare’s mouth till it bleeds, and tightening the reins till they are fit to break.

All in vain; she puts her head down and gallops on, if possible more madly than before.  Still larger looms that terrible wall; death stares me in the face, and for the first time in my life I undergo the intense agony of mortal terror.

We are now at the end of the lane.  There is one chance only, and that the most desperate, of saving my life.  I slip my feet from the stirrups, and when Tickle-me-Quick is within two or three strides of the wall, I drop the reins and throw myself from her back.  Then all is darkness.

CHAPTER III.

MR. FORTESCUE’S PROPOSAL.

“Where am I?”

I feel as if I were in a strait-jacket.  One of my arms is immovable, my head is bandaged, and when I try to turn I suffer excruciating pain.

“Where am I?”

“Oh, you have wakened up!” says somebody with a foreign accent, and a dark face bends over me.  The light is dim and my sight weak, and but for his grizzled mustache I might have taken the speaker for a woman, his ears being adorned with large gold rings.

“Where are you?  You are in the house of Senor Fortescue.”

“And the mare?”

“The mare broke her wicked head against the park wall, and she has gone to the kennels to be eaten by the dogs.”

“Already?  How long is it since?”

“It was the day before yesterday zat it happened.”

“God bless me!  I must have been insensible ever since.  That means concussion of the brain.  Am I much damaged otherwise, do you know?”

“Pretty well.  Your left shoulder is dislocated, one of your fingers and two of your ribs broken, and one of your ankles severely contused.  But it might have been worse.  If you had not thrown yourself from your horse, as you did, you would just now be in a coffin instead of in this comfortable bed.”

“Somebody saw me, then?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper.  He thought you were dead, and came up and told us; and we brought you here on a stretcher, and the Senor Coronel sent for a doctor—­”

“The Senor Coronel!  Do you mean Mr. Fortescue?”

“Yes, sir, I mean Mr. Fortescue.”

“Then you are Ramon?”

“Hijo de Dios! You know my name.”

“Yes, you are Mr. Fortescue’s body-servant.”

“Caramba!  Somebody must have told you.”

“You might have made a worse guess, Senor Ramon.  Will you please tell Mr. Fortescue that I thank him with all my heart for his great kindness, and that I will not trespass on it more than I can possibly help.  As soon as I can be moved I shall go to my own place.”

“That will not be for a long time, and I do not think the Senor Coronel would like—­But when he returns he will see you, and then you can tell him yourself.”