excited by the chase, beyond all judgment or reckoning of his chances, hit out wildly, as beginners will.  The long elastic handle of his weapon struck Isaacs’ horse on the flank and glanced upward, the head of the club striking Isaacs just above the back of the neck.  We saw him throw up his arms, the club in his right hand hanging to his wrist by the strap.  The infuriated little arab pony tore on, and in a moment more the iron grip of the rider’s knees relaxed, Isaacs swayed heavily in the saddle and fell over on the near side, his left foot hanging in the stirrup and dragging him along some paces before the horse finally shook himself clear and scampered away across the turf.  The whole catastrophe occurred in a moment; the man who had done the mischief threw away his club to reach the injured player the sooner, and as we thundered after him, my pony stumbled over the long handle, and falling, threw me heavily over his head.  I escaped with a very slight kick from one of the other horses, and leaving my beast to take care of himself, ran as fast as I could to where Isaacs lay, now surrounded by the six players as they dismounted to help him.  But there was some one there before them.

The accident had occurred near the middle of the ground, and opposite the place where Miss Westonhaugh and her uncle had taken up their stand to watch the contest.  With a shake of the reins and a blow of the hand that made the thoroughbred bound his length as he plunged into a gallop, the girl rode wildly to where Isaacs lay, and reining the animal back on his haunches, sprang to the ground and knelt quickly down, so that before the others had reached them she had propped up his head and was rubbing his hands in hers.  There was no mistaking the impulse that prompted her.  She had seen many an accident in the hunting-field, and knew well that when a man fell like that it was ten to one he was badly hurt.

Isaacs was ghastly pale, and there was a little blood on Miss Westonhaugh’s white gauntlet.  Her face was whiter even than his, though not a quiver of mouth or eyelash betrayed emotion.  The man who had done it knelt on the other side, rubbing one of the hands.  Kildare and Westonhaugh galloped off at full speed, and presently returned bearing a brandy-flask and a smelling-bottle, and followed by a groom with some water in a native lota.  I wanted to make him swallow some of the liquor, but Miss Westonhaugh took the flask from my hands.

“He would not like it.  He never drinks it, you know,” she said in a quiet low voice, and pouring some of the contents on her handkerchief, moistened all his brows and face and hair with the powerful alcohol.

“Loosen his belt! pull off his boots, some of you!” cried Mr. Currie Ghyrkins, as he came up breathless.  “Take off his belt—­damn it, you know!  Dear, dear!” and he got off his tat with all the alacrity he could muster.

Miss Westonhaugh never took her eyes from the face of the prostrate man—­pressing the wet handkerchief to his brow, and moistening the palm of the hand she held with brandy.  In a few minutes Isaacs breathed a long heavy breath, and opened his eyes.