track, farther on, lay a heavy piece of
timber, and it was plain that somebody
meant that, just at that place, the train
must stop. The Blight and I were seated
on the rear platform and the Blight was
taking a last look at her beloved hills.
When the train started again, there was
a cracking of twigs overhead and a
shower of rhododendron leaves and
flowers dropped from the air at the feet
of the Blight. And when we pulled away
from the high-walled cut we saw, mo-
tionless on a little mound, a black horse,
and on him, motionless, the Knight of the
Cumberland, the helmet on his head (that
the Blight might know who he was, no
doubt), and both hands clasping the
broken handle of his spear, which rested
across the pommel of his saddle. Impul-
sively the Blight waved her hand to him
                [ I57 ]