"My cob shall trot against him to the hill and back again--come on!" We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half way to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind.

Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him.

We then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I reached the door.

This running of the horse, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north.

I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of-- "Are you satisfied ?" said the landlord.