“Few riders could have kept their seats so well,” he answered, with ill-concealed admiration.

“I have always been accustomed to horses.  In Australia we ride a great deal.”

“For the instant,” his face slightly paler, “I thought something would happen.”

“It might have,” she returned, a light in her eyes, “but for a timely hand.  My horse apparently does not appreciate Scotch airs.”

“Ugly brute!” Lord Ronsdale, a dissatisfied expression on his handsome countenance, approached.  “A little of the whip—­” the words were arrested; the nobleman stared at John Steele, or rather at the bare arm which the torn sleeve revealed well above the elbow.

The white, uplifted arm suddenly dropped; Steele drew the cloth quickly about it, but not before his eyes had met those of Lord Ronsdale and caught the amazement, incredulity, sudden terror—­was it terror?—­in their depths.

“Told you not to trust him, Jocelyn!” Sir Charles’ loud, hearty voice at the same moment interrupted.  “There was a look about him I didn’t like from the beginning.”

“Perhaps he needs only a little toning down to be fit,” put in Captain Forsythe, as he and the others drew near.  “A few seasons with the hounds, or—­”

“Chasing some poor little fox!” said the girl with light scorn.

“One might be doing something worse!”

“One might!” Her accents were dubious.

“You don’t believe in the chase, or the hunt?  Allow me to differ; people always must hunt something, don’t you know; primeval instinct!  Used to hunt one another,” he laughed.  “Sometimes do now.  Fox is only a substitute for the joys of the man-hunt; sort of sop to Cerberus, as it were.  Eh, Ronsdale?”

But the nobleman did not answer; his face looked drawn and gray; with one hand he seemed almost clinging to his saddle.  John Steele’s back was turned; he was bending over the girth of his saddle and his features could not be seen, but the hand, so firm and assured a moment before, seemed a little uncertain as it made pretext to readjust a fastening or buckle.

“Why, man, you look ill!” Captain Forsythe, turning to Lord Ronsdale, exclaimed suddenly.

“It’s—­nothing—­much—­” With vacant expression the nobleman regarded the speaker; then lifted his hand and pressed it an instant to his breast.  “Heart,” he murmured mechanically.  “Beastly bad heart, you know, and sometimes a little thing—­slight shock—­Miss Wray’s danger—­”

“Take some of this!” The captain, with solicitude, pressed a flask on him; the nobleman drank deeply.  “There; that’ll pick you up.”

“Beastly foolish!” A color sprang to Lord Ronsdale’s face; he held himself more erect.

“Not at all!” Sir Charles interposed.  “A man can’t help a bad liver or a bad heart.  One of those inscrutable visitations of Providence!  But shall we go on?  You’re sure you’re quite yourself?”