The horse plunged in a
little below the bridge. The rider was thrown out of the saddle head
foremost. His head struck with a dull thud against the rugged trunk of
an ash which hung over the water, and he sank below the brown, turbid
stream. Then Victor Carrington emerged from his hiding-place, and
rushed to the brink of the water. No sign of the rector was to be seen;
and midway across, the horse, snorting and terrified, was struggling
towards the opposite bank. In a moment Carrington, drawing something
from his breast as he went, had run across the bridge, and reached the
spot where the animal was now attempting to scramble up the steep bank.
As Carrington came up, he had got his fore-feet within a couple of feet
of the top, and was just making good his footing below; but the
surgeon, standing close upon the brink, a little to the right of the
struggling brute, stooped down and shot him through the forehead. The
huge carcase fell crashing heavily down, and was sucked under, and
whirled away by the stream. Victor Carrington placed the pistol once
more in his breast, and for some time stood quite motionless gazing oh
the river. Then he turned away, saying,--
"They'll hardly look for him below the bridge--I should say the fox ran
west;" and he letting loose the horse he had ridden, walked along the
road until he reached the turn at which Lionel Dale had come in sight.
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