Ian checked the mare. Behind him rolled the moor, with the
hollow where lay, water in a deep jade cup, the Kelpie's Pool. Before
him struck down the green feathered cleft, opening out at last into
the vale. He could see the water there, and a silver gleam that was
White Farm. He sat for a minute, pondering whether he should ride back
the way he had come or, giving Fatima to Peter Lindsay, walk through
the glen. He looked at his watch, looked, too, at a heap of clouds
along the western horizon. The gleam in the vale at last decided him.
He left the saddle.
"Take Fatima around to White Farm, Lindsay. I'll walk through the
glen." His thought was, "I might as well see what like is Alexander's
inamorata!" It was true that he had seen her quite long ago, but time
had overlaid the image, or perhaps he had never paid especial note.
Peter Lindsay stooped to catch the reins that the other tossed him.
"There's weather in thae clouds, sir!"
"Not before night, I think. They're moving very slowly."
Lindsay turned with the horses. Ian, light of step, resilient,
"magnificent," turned from the purple moor into the shade of birches.
A few moments and he was near the cot of Mother Binning. A cock
crowed, a feather of blue smoke went up from her peat fire.
He came to her door, meaning to stay but for a good-natured five
minutes of gossip.
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