Before I was two years old, something happened that I have never forgotten. One misty spring morning we heard, far away, the cry of dogs.
“There are the hounds!” said the oldest colt, and we all ran to the top of the field to look over the hedge.
“They have found a hare,” said my mother, “and if they come this way, we shall see the hunt.”
Soon the dogs came racing across the next field, with men on horseback galloping after them. Then a hare, wild with fear, rushed past us. The dogs jumped the brook at the bottom of our meadow, with the men close behind. The hare tried to get through the hedge, but it was too thick. The dogs were on her; we heard one scream, and that was the end of her. One of the men held her up, and all the gentlemen seemed pleased.
Then I looked towards the brook. Two fine horses were down: one was struggling in the water, and the other lay groaning on the grass. One of the riders lay quite still.
“His neck is broken,” said my mother.
“And it serves him right, too,” said one of the colts. I thought the same.
“No,” said my mother, “you must not say that. I am an old horse, and I have seen a great deal, but I have never understood why men love this sport so much. They often hurt themselves, they spoil good horses, and all for a hare or a fox. But we are only horses, and we don’t know.”
Our master was the first to lift the young man. His head fell back, and everyone looked very serious. I heard later that he was young George Gordon, the squire’s only son, the pride of his family.
Mr Bond, the horse doctor, came to look at the black horse on the grass. He shook his head: one of the horse’s legs was broken. Someone brought a gun. There was a loud bang and a terrible scream, and then all was still.
My mother was very troubled. She had known that horse for years. His name was Rob Roy, and he was a good horse. She never went to that part of the field again.
A few days later the church bell rang for a long time, and over the gate we saw long black carriages pulled by black horses. They were taking young Gordon to the churchyard. He would never ride again. And it was all for one little hare.