So we passed over another ten miles, and then came a long, weary rise of some six or seven miles, and three times did my poor black mare nearly come to the ground with me.

But on the top she seemed to gather herself together, and rattled down the slope with long, convulsive strides, breathing in gasps.
We did that three or four miles more swiftly than any since we had started on our wild ride, but I felt it to be a last effort, and I was right.

Suddenly my poor horse took the bit between her teeth and bolted furiously along a stretch of level ground for some three or four hundred yards, and then, with two or three jerky strides, pulled herself up and fell with a crash right on to her head, I rolling myself free as she did so.

As I struggled to my feet the brave beast raised her head and looked at me with piteous bloodshot eyes, and then her head dropped with a groan and she was dead.

Her heart was broken.
Umslopogaas pulled up beside the carcase, and I looked at him in dismay.