Diaz helped me to mount, and we departed, jingling through the gate and across the road into a glade of the forest, one of those long sandy defiles, banked on either side, and over-shadowed with tall oaks, which pierce the immense forest like rapiers.  The sunshine slanted through the crimsoning leafwork and made irregular golden patches on the dark sand to the furthest limit of the perspective.  And though we could not feel the autumn wind, we could hear it in the tree-tops, and it had the sound of the sea.  The sense of well-being and of joy was exquisite.  The beauty of horses, timid creatures, sensitive and graceful and irrational as young girls, is a thing apart; and what is strange is that their vast strength does not seem incongruous with it.  To be above that proud and lovely organism, listening, apprehensive, palpitating, nervous far beyond the human, to feel one’s self almost part of it by intimate contact, to yield to it, and make it yield, to draw from it into one’s self some of its exultant vitality—­in a word, to ride—­yes, I could comprehend Diaz’ fine enthusiasm for that!  I could share it when he was content to let the horses amble with noiseless hoofs over the soft ways.  But when he would gallop, and a strong wind sprang up to meet our faces, and the earth shook and thundered, and the trunks of the trees raced past us, then I was afraid.  My fancy always saw him senseless at the foot of a tree while his horse calmly cropped the short grass at the sides of the path, or with his precious hand twisted and maimed!  And I was in agony till he reined in.  I never dared to speak to him of this fear, nor even hint to him that the joy was worth less than the peril.  He would have been angry in his heart, and something in him stronger than himself would have forced him to increase the risks.  I knew him! ...  Ah! but when we went gently, life seemed to be ideal for me, impossibly perfect!  It seemed to contain all that I could ever have demanded of it.

I looked at him sideways, so noble and sane and self-controlled.  And the days in Paris had receded, far and dim and phantom-like.  Was it conceivable that they had once been real, and that we had lived through them?  And was this Diaz, the world-renowned darling of capitals, riding by me, a woman whom he had met by fantastic chance?  Had he really hidden himself in my arms from the cruel stare of the world and the insufferable curiosity of admirers who, instead of admiring, had begun to pity?  Had I in truth saved him?  Was it I who would restore him to his glory?  Oh, the astounding romance that my life had been!  And he was with me!  He shared my life, and I his!  I wondered what would happen when he returned to his bright kingdom.  I was selfish enough to wish that he might never return to his kingdom, and that we might ride and ride for ever in the forest.

And then we came to a circular clearing, with an iron cross in the middle, where roads met, a place such as occurs magically in some ballade of Chopin’s.  And here we drew rein on the leaf-strewn grass, breathing quickly, with reddened cheeks, and the horses nosed each other, with long stretchings of the neck and rattling of bits.