The Veiled Man by Ambrose Pratt — Read

Cawthorne left the solicitor's office at four o'clock, having executed an agreement to settle a large sum on Lady Dorothy after the marriage; Mr. Southdown having been unable to complete the preparation of proper settlements at so short a notice. The Marquis had treated him throughout their tedious interview with an acid coolness that he found very hard to bear. And although the young man endured the trial manfully, he set out on his homeward journey, feeling sore at heart and worn out with his long effort to restrain himself. For that reason he rode more carelessly than usual. He was musing sorrowfully on his prospective father-in-law's manifest dislike of him, and wondering at its cause, when Black Prince, feeling the reins hang loosely on his neck, took it in his head to bolt.

Cawthorne awoke from his reflections with a shock, to find himself speeding at a break-neck gallop through the town. He was a good rider, and the sudden start had not unseated him. But he always rode without a curb, and Black Prince treated the snaffle with contempt. Moreover, he saw a hundred yards before him, two carts drawn straight across the narrow road. For a moment he was utterly dismayed, for the passage was quite blocked, and an accident appeared inevitable. Then he remembered that Black Prince was a hunter, and he took a little courage. He heard a shout, a woman's scream, and he saw a man dart out like an arrow to one of the horses in the cart. The man seized the horse's bit and tried to drag his head around. Next instant Cawthorne was upon him. It seemed that the man was doomed, but Cawthorne, who lived a lifetime in that second, resolved that one who tried to save him should not suffer. He gave a mighty wrench at his left rein, and slashed his whip across the face of the bolting thoroughbred. Black Prince snorted and swerved, but he had already gathered for his jump. He rose in air and cleared the fore part of the second waggon in a splendid flying leap. His pace carried him across without a touch, but in the swerve Cawthorne lost his seat. He struggled madly and vainly to regain it, yet for a while he clung on, upheld by one spur entangled in the saddle rim and his hands wild clutch upon the reins. He saw the houses glimmer past, beneath the horse's neck, dancing and tossing like card structures in a storm. There followed trees as dizzily awhirl, then a flat stretch of country that rose and fell like billows in a gale. His strength was failing fast; lower and lower his head and body sank. Soon the landscape ceased to play its reeling pranks and only the blue sky met his dazzled gaze. A curious sense of unreality possessed him. He tried to realise that it was his own experience he was living through. He said to himself, in a few seconds I shall be killed. But he was in no wise serious. A second sense informed him that he was safe at home lying on his bed and dreaming the experience of some other man. He smiled and put out his hand. It touched the coverlid of a bed. He felt the honeycombed surface of the quilt with recognising fingers. "I knew it," he thought, and smiled again. Then he wondered at the darkness. "It must be night," he mused. "I must go to sleep again."