Who was John
Armitage? She did not know or care, now that she had performed for him
her last service. Quite likely he would fade away on the morrow like a
mountain shadow before the sun; and the song in her heart to-night was
not love or anything akin to it, but only the joy of living.
Where the road grew difficult as it dipped sharply down into the valley
she suffered him perforce to ride beside her.
"You ride wonderfully," he said.
"The horse is a joy. He's a Pendragon--I know them in the dark. He must
have come from this valley somewhere. We own some of his cousins, I'm
sure."
"You are quite right. He's a Virginia horse. You are incomparable--no
other woman alive could have kept that pace. It's a brave woman who isn't
a slave to her hair-pins--I don't believe you spilled one."
She drew rein at the cross-roads.
"We part here. How shall I return Bucephalus?"
"Let me go to your own gate, please!"
"Not at all!" she said with decision.
"Then Oscar will pick him up. If you don't see him, turn the horse loose.
But my thanks--for oh, so many things!" he pleaded.
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