How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper surrender, a fuller yielding.

When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling.  Her mind alone, governed by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return.

Now—­how different!  Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected, she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended, straight to the arms of the man who had won her.

A wild joy seized and shook her.

The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed enchanted ground.  The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss.  The stillness seemed alive with whispering life.  Rabbits sat still to peep, then whisked and ran.  Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring wings.  Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang.

There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen.  Yet all these varied sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the complete remoteness from human dwelling-place.

Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade.

The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon.  He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an unseen way.

Mora rode as in a dream.  “I ride to my husband,” she cried to the forest, “and I choose to ride alone!” And once she sang, in an irrepressible burst of praise:  “Jesu dulsis memoria!” Then, when she fell silent:  “Dulsis! Dulsis!” carolled unseen choristers in leafy clerestories overhead.  And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and cantered faster.

Not far from her journey’s end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.

Here the sun’s rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.

Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and slipped again.

With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing through the undergrowth.

Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon’s, high up among the tree trunks.

Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart was now so blissfully at rest.

Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.

“I ride to my husband,” she whispered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, “and I choose to ride alone.”