His honour, aged and haggard, leaned back in his seat, glancing uneasily now and then at the rocks on either side, and now and then uttering an impatient "tchk" at the panting animal.
I had barely time to whip out my ship's pistol from my belt--luckily already loaded--and level it at the assassin.

Almost at the instant of my discharge his gun went off; and in the moment of silence that followed, I heard the horse start at a gallop along the level road.
Paddy lay on his face, hit in the shoulder, but not, as I judged by his kicking, fatally so.

I was less concerned about him than about the occupants of the gig.

As far as I could see, looking after them, neither was hurt, and the assassin's gun must have gone off harmlessly in the air.

The horse, who seemed to know what all this meant as well as any one, raced for his life, and I was expecting to see the gig disappear round the turn, unless it overturned first, when a huge stone rolled down on to the road a few yards ahead, and brought the animal up on his haunches with such suddenness that the two travellers were almost pitched from their seats.
At the same moment two men, armed with clubs, leaped on to the road, one making for the horse's head, the other for the step.
All this took less time to happen than it takes me to tell it, and before the gig actually came to a standstill I was rushing along the road to the spot.