While out riding one day, Makny's horse spooked and veered off the road, galloping through a field of tall grass.  Makny was irritated, but not worried; he had ridden fast before. He tugged on the reins and chided the horse, trying fruitlessly to steer her back to the road, not watching the ground in front of him, until suddenly the horse was rising beneath him.  He lost hold of the reins. His legs flew clear of the saddle. He flailed and grasped at the air. Now he was worried. He coughed and sputtered on the ground, struggling to regain his breath after a thick tuft of grass had knocked the wind from his lungs.  After a few moments his father was over him, still in his own saddle, with Makny's horse at his side. "You're lucky," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You just missed that rock." Makny grimaced and rolled over onto his hands and knees, coming face-to-face with the stone that could have killed him had his head fallen a few inches to the left. He stumbled to his feet, limped defiantly over to grab the reins from his father's hand, and clambered back atop his unruly mare.  As they picked their way back through the field an old saying played at the back of his mind. "A man is not beaten until he stops getting up."