then with a vicious lunge he threw himself backward upon the ground. 

 “It’s death!” exclaimed one of the knights, “he will kill the youth yet, Beauchamp.” 

 “No!” cried he addressed. “Look! He is up again and the boy still clings as tightly to him as his own black hide.” 

 “’Tis true,” exclaimed another, “but he hath lost what he had gained upon the halter—he must needs fight it all out again from the beginning.” 

 And so the battle went on again as before, the boy again drawing the iron neck slowly to the right—the beast fighting and squealing as though possessed of a thousand devils. A dozen times, as the head bent farther and farther toward him, the boy loosed his hold upon the mane and reached quickly down to grasp the near fore pastern. A dozen times the horse shook off the new hold, but at length the boy was successful, and the knee was bent and the hoof drawn up to the elbow. 

 Now the black fought at a disadvantage, for he was on but three feet and his neck was drawn about in an awkward and unnatural position. His efforts became weaker and weaker. The boy talked incessantly to him in a quiet voice, and there was a shadow of a smile upon his lips. Now he bore heavily upon the black withers, pulling the horse toward him. Slowly the beast sank upon his bent knee—pulling backward until his off fore leg was stretched straight before him. Then, with a final surge, the youth pulled him over upon his side, and, as he fell, slipped prone beside him. One sinewy hand shot to the rope just beneath the black chin—the other grasped a slim, pointed ear. 

 For a few minutes the horse fought and kicked to gain his liberty, but with his head held to the earth, he was as powerless in the hands of the boy as a baby would have been. Then he sank panting and exhausted into mute surrender. 

 “Well done!” cried one of the knights. “Simon de Montfort himself never mastered a horse in better order, my boy. Who be thou?” 

 In an instant, the lad was upon his feet his eyes searching for the speaker. The horse, released, sprang up also, and the two stood—the handsome boy and the beautiful black—gazing with startled eyes, like two wild things, at the strange intruder who confronted them. 

 “Come, Sir Mortimer!” cried the boy, and turning he led the prancing but subdued animal toward the castle and through the ruined barbican into the court beyond. 

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