I made my way back, the horse moving cautiously, and I could feel the shudders of apprehension going through her flanks. As we approached the Scotch pines I looked to see what logical explanation I could find for the white flapping shape that had so startled us. I could make out something white moving through the mist. Then I heard a jingling of harness, the soft muted sound of hoofbeats on turf, and heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t so far from the others after all. A white horse loomed out of the mist and it took me a minute to notice that it was riderless.

In spite of Snowflake’s protests I managed to get close enough to grab the reins.

“Hello!” I called into the mist. “Anyone out there? Do you need help?”

Silence met me, followed by that strange flapping sound echoing back from an unseen crag. I wasn’t going to wander into trackless moor so I took Sal’s advice and followed the track down the hill, leading the gray. It followed me reluctantly and I thought this might have something to do with my horse’s bad temper until I turned around and noticed it was lame in the left foreleg. I went more slowly. As I came down the hill I met other riders coming toward me.

“Lost the scent at Downey Brook,” one of them called, “and the mist is so dashed thick that we’re packing it in. No sense in risking breaking a leg.” The man came closer, riding a big, solid dark horse. He stopped when he noticed the horse I was leading.

“I say. That’s the master’s horse, isn’t it? Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I found the horse wandering in the mist.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Up there.” I pointed to the track I had just descended.

“But that’s Barston Mere,” he said. “What were you doing up there?”

“I became separated from the rest of the hunt,” I said. “I thought I was following the master. Something spooked my horse and by the time I’d controlled it I hadn’t any idea where I was.”

“It’s not like the master to come off,” the man said. “Damned fine horseman, and his horse can jump anything you put in front of it.”

“The horse seems to have injured its foreleg,” I said. “It’s limping badly.”

“I can see some blood. Maybe cut itself trying to jump a wall,” the man said. “Maybe fell at a jump. The master can be a trifle reckless at times. Still thinks he’s twenty-one.” And he laughed, a dry haw haw sound.

Other riders had now caught up with us.

“The young lady says she found the master’s horse up beside the mere,” he said.