From Resurrection: The Heresy of a Jesuit:
“They plunged across the stream, man and horse in perfect harmony, galloping for their lives.
His tattered and mud-splattered cape streamed behind him, and his breeches bore the scratches and rips that headlong flight through dense woodland had inflicted.
And yet, his mind sang with exhilaration that approached ecstatic joy. He lived for this. The Chase.
Of course, he grudgingly thought. Normally, I am doing the chasing.
Up a sandy path, slipping and sliding as hooves dug deep, shredding the sparse turf in their fury, climbing from the valley bottom toward the ridge that loomed above.
Atop the crest, they raced, twisting and turning through the trees, leaping over fallen logs. Thorny brambles grasped longingly at expensive breeches and slick horseflesh.
Finally, the way was clear and straight, so he hazarded a glance over his shoulder.
Despite his efforts, the pursuers had gained ground.
Terpsichore was tiring.
He could feel it in the slower beat of her hooves, in the cadence of her rise and fall, in the snort and whistle of her laboured breathing.
She had given her all, and then some more, but it had not been enough.
It was not the mare’s fault; it was his own. He was the one who had overstretched their limits, trying to reach the next town before dark.
The posse of brigands had charged from a shadowy stand of trees, whooping and hollering like heathens. The fastest two had pinned him between them as they galloped together across the broad meadow. One had reached over to grab his reins, stupidly exposing himself to a punch that unhorsed him. His compatriots had been too close to avoid his tumbling body, and his muffled cries had abruptly cut off.
It took skill to fight on horseback, and he was a veteran whilst his assailants were clearly amateurs. Unfortunately, even fools can land a lucky blow if they have sufficient chances. And these fools did. One managed to slice his side with a dagger. He judged that the wound itself was not fatal, but it was streaming blood and his strength was draining with it.
I refuse to die from a puny scratch, he thought angrily. I would never live it down!
Then he heard the characteristic twang of a crossbow.
That would be more acceptable.
But I cannot allow it – I swore an oath!
His back stiffened, bracing for impact, even though he knew a direct hit was nearly impossible, at this distance and at this speed.”