The big hoofs literally smashed at the rocks, and the ringing of it
echoed hollowly along the rock face of the ravine.
At the summit, for a single moment, like a bird of prey pausing in mid
circle to note the position of the field mouse before it closes wings
and bolts down out of the blue, Drew sat his horse motionless and stared
down into the valleys below until he noted the exact location of his
house--the lake glittered back and up to him in the slant light of the
late afternoon. The bay, such was the violence of its panting, literally
rocked beneath him.
Then he started the last downward course, sweeping along the treacherous
trail with reckless speed, the rocks scattering before him. When they
straightened out on the level going beneath, the bay was staggering;
there was no longer any of the lilt and ease of the strong horse
running; it was a succession of jerks and jars, and the panting was a
sharper sound than the thunder of the hoofs. His shoulders, his flanks,
his neck--all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell,
reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep
up the restraining pressure.
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