The
deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulder
as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw the
squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with the
apparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently an idea
struck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was not where he
had seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm of victory he had
forgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that he
did not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was so
elated that, shame on him! he did not care. With her, all was lost;
without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was to
win. But now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his at
last, he thought of the widow, and he did care. He cared so much that
he almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him,
and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were after
him.
He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might have
been seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply to make
it possible for him to win.
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