With all her might, but utterly in vain, she wrenched sideways at the
mare's mouth and she closed her eyes lest she should see the man die.
He had meant to let her pass to her death, for the girl was dearer to
him, and he had gathered his strength like a bent spring to serve him.
But he saw her eyes and heard her cry, and in the flash of instinct he
knew she loved him, and that she wished him to save himself rather than
her; and thereby is real love proved on the touchstone of fear.
[Illustration: "HE... HELD, WHILE EARTH AND SKY WHIRLED WITH HIM."]
As he sprang, he knew that he had no choice, though he did not love
her. The fall of her mare, if his grip held, might stop the rest. He
sprang; he saw only the Arab's bony head and the gold on the bridle, as
both his hands grasped it. Then he saw nothing, but yet he held, and,
dead, he would have held still, as the steel jaws of the hunter's trap
hold upon the wolf's leg-bone. He knew that he was thrown down,
dragged, pounded, bruised, twisted like a rope till his joints cracked.
But he held, and felt no pain, while earth and sky whirled with him. It
was not a second; it was an hour, a year, a lifetime; yet he could not
have loosed his hands, had he wished to let go, for there were in him
the blood and the soul of the race that never yielded its grip on
whatsoever it held.
It lasted a breathing-space, while the mare plunged wildly and
staggered, and her head almost touched the ground and dragged the man's
hands on the turf; then as his weight wrenched her neck back, her
violent speed threw her hind quarters round, as a vane is blown from
the gale.
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