At Loves Cost | Page 6

for a moment the pair were motionless, reminding Stafford of a
bronze statue. The hill was fearfully steep, even the dogs ran with a
certain amount of caution, and Stafford wondered whether the rider--he
couldn't see if it was man or boy--would venture down the almost
precipitous slope. While he was wondering, the small figure on the
horse sent up a cry that rang like the note of a bell and echoed in sweet
shrillness down the hill and along the valley. The collie stopped as if
shot, and the fox-terrier looked round, prepared to go back to the rider.
It looked for a moment as if the rider were going down the other side of
the hill again; then suddenly, as if he detected something wrong in the
valley below, he turned the horse and came down the hill-side at a pace
which made Stafford, hard and fearless rider as he was, open his eyes.
It seemed to him impossible that the horse could avoid a false step or a
slip, and such a false step he knew would send steed and rider hurtling
down to something that could be very little short of instant death. He
forgot all about the big trout in the pool, and stood with his fly drifting
aimlessly in the water, watching with something like breathless interest

this, the most daring piece of horsemanship he had ever witnessed; and
he had ridden side by side with the best steeplechaser of the day, and
had watched a crack Hungarian cavalry corps at its manoeuvres; which
last is about the top notch of the horse-riding business.
But the big horse did not falter for a moment; down it came at a hard
gallop, and Stafford's admiration was swallowed up in amazement
when he saw that the rider was a young girl, that she was riding with
about half an ounce on the reins, and that, apparently, she was as much
at ease and unconscious of danger as if she were trotting on a tame
hack in Rotten Row.
As she came nearer, admiration romped in ahead of amazement, for the
girl was a young one--she looked like the average school-girl--and had
one of the most beautiful faces Stafford had ever seen. She was dark,
but the cheek that was swept by the long lashes was colourless with
that exquisite and healthy pallor which one sees in the women of
Northern Spain. Her hair was black but soft and silky, and the wind
blew it in soft tendrils, now across her brow and now in dazzling
strands about the soft felt hat which sat in graceful negligence upon the
small and stately head. She wore a habit stained by use and weather,
and so short that it was little better than a skirt, and left her almost as
absolute a freedom as that enjoyed by the opposite sex. Her hands were
covered by well-worn gauntlets, and she held a stout and workman-like
crop with a long huntsman's thong.
A poet would instantly have thought that it was a vision of the Spirit of
the Mountains; Stafford only thought it was the most lovely piece of
girlhood he had ever looked at. She did not see him for a moment, all
her attention being engrossed by the sheep which were now wandering
up the valley; then suddenly, as if she felt his presence rather than saw
it, her dark eyes flashed round upon him and she pulled up the big
horse on its haunches with a suddenness which ought to have sent her
from the saddle like a stone from a catapult; but she sat back as firm as
a rock and gazed at him steadily, with a calmness which fascinated
Stafford and kept him staring back at her as if he were the veriest
plough-boy.

And to put it frankly, it was something like fascination. She had come
upon him so suddenly, her feat of horsemanship had been so audacious,
her beauty was so marvellous that Stafford, perhaps for the first time in
his life, found himself unable to utter a word in the presence of one of
the opposite sex. It was only for a moment or two, of course, that he
lost his presence of mind; then he pulled himself together and raised his
cap. She gave him the very slightest of bows. It was the faintest
indication only of response to his salute; her eyes rested on his face
with a strange, ungirlish calm, then wandered to the last trout which lay
on the bank.
Stafford felt that something had to be said, but for the life of him, for
the first time in his experience, he couldn't hit upon the thing to say.
"Good-afternoon" seemed to him too banal, commonplace; and he
could think of