“And in the United States they take the right, and she is between him and any possible danger,” said the master.  “It is the custom, but it seems illogical and foolish.  True, it removes any danger that the lady may be crushed between her own horse and her escort’s, but who protects her from any passing car or carriage, and in case of a runaway what can her escort, his left hand occupied with his own reins, do to aid her with hers, or to disentangle her foot from the stirrup or her habit from the pommels in case she is thrown?  Can he snatch her from the saddle, after the matter of one of Joaquin Miller’s young men?  The truth is that since the rule of the road is ‘keep to the right,’ the rule of the saddle should be ‘sit on the right,’ but with a lady on his bridle hand the horseman could not be at his best as an escort, even then.

“It is one of the many little absurdities in American customs; the old story of the survival of the two buttons at the back of the coat, and, by the way, Miss Esmeralda, the two buttons on the back of your habit are out of place, not because of your tailor’s fault, but because of yours.  They should make a line at right angles with your horse’s spinal column.  Draw yourself back a little, until you can feel the pommel under your right knee.  ‘Draw’ yourself back; don’t lean, but keep yourself perfectly erect, your back perpendicular to your horse’s.  Sit a little to the left; lean a little to the right.  Let your left shoulder go forward a little, your right shoulder backward.  Now you are exactly right.  Try to remember your sensations at this minute, in order to be able to reproduce them.  When I say ‘Careful,’ pass yourself in review and endeavor to feel where you are wrong.  But,” addressing the cavalryman, who was in advance with Versatilia, “is this procession a funeral?”

“Not exactly,” said the cavalryman, and the, after a backward glance, he cried, in the fashion of a military riding-school master:  “Pr-r-re-pare to tr-r-r-ot—­Trot!”

Esmeralda remembered to shorten her reins, and resigned herself to the Fates, who were propitious, enabling her to catch the cadence of the trot, and to rise to it during the few seconds before the cavalryman slackened rein.  “Careful,” said the master, and she shook herself into place, eliciting a hearty “Good!” from him.  “Look at your pretty girl,” he growled softly, but savagely, and truly the beauty solicited attention.  Slipping to the left in her saddle, one elbow pointing toward Cambridgeport and the other toward Dorchester, her right foot visible through her habit, and her left all but out of the stirrup, she was attractive no longer, and to complete the master’s disgust she ejaculated:  “My hair is coming down!”