At Love's Cost

A moment afterwards a horse and rider were silhouetted on the extreme

top of the high hill. The horse was large whereby the rider looked

small; and 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.