His eye caught a whole row of high-plumed canes bending in unison, and then the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell.  The breeze was growing stronger.  Somehow it took the stiff stillness out of things—­and that was well.

“Hullo!” said the gaunt man.

All three stopped abruptly.

“What?” asked the master.  “What?”

“Over there,” said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.

“What?”

“Something coming towards us.”

And as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing down upon them.  It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind, tongue out, at a steady pace, and running with such an intensity of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he approached.  He ran with his nose up, following, it was plain, neither scent nor quarry.  As he drew nearer the little man felt for his sword.  “He’s mad,” said the gaunt rider.

“Shout!” said the little man, and shouted.

The dog came on.  Then when the little man’s blade was already out, it swerved aside and went panting by them and passed.  The eyes of the little man followed its flight.  “There was no foam,” he said.  For a space the man with the silver-studded bridle stared up the valley.  “Oh, come on!” he cried at last.  “What does it matter?” and jerked his horse into movement again.

The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human character.  “Come on!” he whispered to himself.  “Why should it be given to one man to say ‘Come on!’ with that stupendous violence of effect?  Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle has been saying that.  If I said it—!” thought the little man.  But people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest things.  This half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one, mad—­blasphemous almost.  The little man, by way of comparison, reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly...

Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back to more immediate things.  He became aware of something.  He rode up beside his gaunt fellow.  “Do you notice the horses?” he said in an undertone.

The gaunt face looked interrogation.

“They don’t like this wind,” said the little man, and dropped behind as the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.

“It’s all right,” said the gaunt-faced man.

They rode on again for a space in silence.  The foremost two rode downcast upon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that crept down the vastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted how the wind grew in strength moment by moment.  Far away on the left he saw a line of dark bulks—­wild hog, perhaps, galloping down the valley, but of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon the uneasiness of the horses.