The carrier took the pistol. Stephen looked away. There was a shot – a horrible sound – followed immediately by a wild cawing and the rush of wings as all the birds in the neighbourhood took flight at once. Stephen looked back. Firenze convulsed once and then was still.

“Thank you,” he said to the carrier.

He heard the carrier walk away and he thought the man was gone, but in a moment he returned, nudged Stephen again and handed him a black bottle.

Stephen swallowed. It was gin of the roughest sort. He coughed.

Despite the fact that the cost of Stephen’s clothes and boots could have bought the carrier’s cart and horse twice over, the carrier assumed the cheerful superiority that white generally feels for black. He considered the matter and told Stephen that the first thing they must do was to arrange for the carcass to be removed. “She’s a valuable beast – dead or alive. Your master won’t be best pleased when he finds soom other fella has got t’horse and t’money.”

“She was not my master’s horse,” said Stephen, “She was mine.”

“Eh!” said the carrier. “Look at that!”

A raven had alighted upon Firenze’s milk-white flank.

“No!” cried Stephen and moved to shoo the bird away.

But the carrier stopped him. “Nay, lad! Nay! That’s lucky. I do not know when I saw a better omen!”

“Lucky!” said Stephen, “What are you talking about?”

“ ’Tis the sign of the old King, ain’t it? A raven upon summat white. Old John’s banner!”1

The carrier informed Stephen that he knew of a place close by where, he said, the people would for a price help Stephen make arrangements for disposing of Firenze. Stephen climbed upon the box and the carrier drove him to a farm.