stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man

appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing

behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without

a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch

of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with

his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's

eye. "Well?" he said at last, with no pretence of authority.



"You left him?"



"My horse bolted."



"I know. So did mine."



He laughed at his master mirthlessly.



"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded

bridle.



"Cowards both," said the little man.



The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,

with his eye on his inferior.



"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.



"You are a coward like myself."



"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.

That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where

the difference comes in."



"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved

your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?"



The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.



"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better

than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry

two men a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time

it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive

that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,

to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.

Besides which--I never liked you."



"My lord!" said the little man.



"No," said the master. "NO!"



He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps



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