He rode like a monkey clinging to the back of a hound, his shoulder hunched, his body bent forward even with the mare's neck, his knees gripping the saddle with a frightened tenacity, his small, black eyes peering into the darkness before him, and his ears alert to the sound of pursuers.
Twenty men of the British artillery were also off on a chase that pleased them well.

The hunt was up.

It was not only the joy of killing, but the joy of gain, that spurred them on; for they would have that little black thief who stole the general's brown mare, or they would know the reason why.
As the night wore on, Lavilette could hear hoof-beats behind him; those of the mare growing clearer and clearer, and those of the artillerymen remaining about the same, monotonously steady.

He looked back, and saw the mare lightly leaning to her work, and a little man hanging to her back.

He did not know who it was; and if he had known he would have wondered.