Beth raised her eyes to the dazzling vault.  One cannot sit a horse so—­well.  She lost the rhythm of her posting, but loved the roughness of it.  The heights thralled her.  Up, up, into the blue and gold, she trembled with the ecstasy of the thought, like the bee princess in nuptial flight—­a June day like this—­up, up, until the followers had fallen back—­all but two—­all but one—­which one?...  There was a slight pull at her skirt.  She turned.

He was laughing.  His hand held a fold of her dress against the cantle of the saddle.  She could not have fallen on the far side, and he was on this....  A sudden plunge of a mount would unseat any rider, staring straight up....  Yes, he was there!...  How different the world looked—­with him there.  She had ridden alone so long.  She dared to look at him again.

His eyes were fastened ahead.  Could it be illusion—­their fiery intentness?  She followed his glance....  The big woods—­she knew them, had ridden by them many times—­how deep and green they looked!...  But what was the meaning of that set, inexorable line of his profile?  What was he battling?  That was her word, her portion.  For hours, days, years she had been battling, but not now!  No longer would she be one of the veal calves tied to a post on the world’s highway, to consume the pity of poor avatars!...  Avatars—­the word changed the whole order of her thoughts; and those which came were not like hers, but reckless ventures on forbidden ground; and, too, there was zest in the very foreignness of the thoughts:  Avatars—­did they not spring into being from such instants as this—­high noon, vitality rising to the sun, all earth in the stillness of creation; and above, blue and gold, millions and millions of leagues of sheer happiness; and behind—­put far behind for the hour—­all crawling and contending creatures....

And now the yellow-brown studio would not remain behind, but swept clearly into her thinking.  Something was queer about it.  Yes, the havoc of loneliness and suffering was gone....  And there seemed a rustling in the far shadows of the little room.  Could it be the Shadowy Sister returning?  And that instant, with a realism that haunted her for years, there came—­to her human or psychic sense, she could never tell—­a tiny cry!...  Beth almost swooned.  His hand sustained ... and then she saw again his laughing face; all the intensity gone.  It was carved of sunlight.  Everything was sunlight.

Beth spoke to Clarendon.  She would ride—­show him, she needed no hand in riding.  The great beast settled down to his famous trot, pulling the chestnut mare to a run.  Clarendon was steady as a car; the faster his trot, the easier to ride....  She turned and watched this magician beside her; his bridle-arm lifted, the leather held lightly as a pencil; laughing, asking nothing, needing not to ask.  And she was unafraid, rejoicing in his power.  All fear and slavishness and rebellion, all that was bleak and nineteenth century, far behind.  This was the Rousing Modern Hour—­her high day.