Just at this point the groom rode up.  “Beg pardon, Miss D’Alloi,” he said, touching his cap.  “My ’orse went down on a bit of hice.”

“You are not hurt, Belden?” said Miss D’Alloi.

Peter thought the anxious tone heavenly.  He rather wished he had broken something himself.

“No.  Nor the ’orse.”

“Then it’s all right.  Mr. Stirling, we need not interrupt your ride.  Belden will see me home.”

Belden see her home!  Peter would see him do it!  That was what Peter thought.  He said, “I shall ride with you, of course.”  So they started their horses, the groom dropping behind.

“Do you want to try it again?” asked Mutineer of the roan.

“No,” said the mare.  “You are too big and strong.”

Leonore was just saying:  “I could hear the pound of a horse’s feet behind me, but I thought it was the groom, and knew he could never overtake Fly-away.  So when I felt the saddle begin to slip, I thought I was—­was going to be dragged—­as I once saw a woman in England—­Oh!—­and then suddenly I saw a horse’s head, and then I felt some one take hold of me so firmly that I didn’t have to hold myself at all, and I knew I was safe.  Oh, how nice it is to be big and strong!”

Peter thought so too.

So it is the world over.  Peter and Mutineer felt happy and proud in their strength, and Leonore and Fly-away glorified them for it.  Yet in spite of this, as Peter looked down at the curly head, from his own and Mutineers altitude, he felt no superiority, and knew that the slightest wish expressed by that small mouth, would be as strong with him as if a European army obeyed its commands.

“What a tremendous horse you have?” said Leonore.  “Isn’t he?” assented Peter.  “He’s got a bad temper, I’m sorry to say, but I’m very fond of him.  He was given me by my regiment, and was the choice of a very dear friend now dead.”

“Who was that?”

“No one you know.  A Mr. Costell.”

“Oh, yes I do.  I’ve heard all about him.”

“What do you know of Mr. Costell?”

“What Miss De Voe told me.”

“Miss De Voe?”

“Yes.  We saw her both times in Europe.  Once at Nice, and once in—­in 1882—­at Maggiore.  The first time, I was only six, but she used to tell me stories about you and the little children in the angle.  The last time she told me all she could remember about you.  We used to drift about the lake moonlight nights, and talk about you.”

“What made that worth doing to you?”

“Oh from the very beginning, that I can remember, papa was always talking about ‘dear old Peter’”—­the talker said the last three words in such a tone, shot such a look up at Peter, half laughing and half timid, that in combination they nearly made Peter reel in his saddle—­“and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak of, so I became very curious about you as a little girl, and then Miss De Voe made me more interested, so that I began questioning Americans, because I was really anxious to learn things concerning you.  Nearly every one did know something, so I found out a great deal about you.”