The roads and lanes were fetlock-deep in mud, and the horses went
splashing through pools of water, which spurted up into the faces of
the riders.
There was only one lady besides Lydia Graham who intended to accompany
the huntsmen, and this lady was the dashing young wife of a cavalry
officer, who was spending a month's leave of absence with his relatives
at Hallgrove.
The hunting-party rode out of the rectory gates in twos and threes. All
had passed out into the high road before the rector himself, who was
mounted on his new hunter.
To his extreme surprise he found a difficulty in managing the animal.
He reared, and jibbed, and shied from side to side upon the broad
carriage-drive, splashing the melted snow and wet gravel upon the
rector's dark hunting-coat.
"So ho, 'Niagara,'" said Lionel, patting the animal's arched neck;
"gently, boy, gently."
His voice, and the caressing touch of his hand seemed to have some
little effect, for the horse consented to trot quietly into the road,
after the rest of the party, and Lionel quickly overtook his friends.
He rode shoulder by shoulder with Squire Mordaunt, an acknowledged
judge of horseflesh, who watched the rector's hunter with a curious
gaze for some minutes.
"I'll tell you what it is, Dale," he said, "I don't believe that horse
of yours is a good-tempered animal."
"You do not?"
"No, there's a dangerous look in his eye that I don't at all like.
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