Dacre looked at the small head, with its bright, full, kind eye, broad forehead, tapered muzzle, thin, sensitive nostrils and ears; at the arched neck, the deep chest, the rather short barrel, the narrow waist, powerful flanks, and sinewy, springy, slender legs.

“He is beautiful,” he said.  “Methinks I never saw so perfect a horse.”

“And his intelligence is in kind,” said Aymer.  “He has many accomplishments, but the one most satisfactory to me is the way he understands my voice. . .  Observe------”

He dropped the reins over the pommel, and at the word, Selim, without touch of knee or shift of bit, went through all the gaits and facings, ending with the most difficult of all—­the seven artificial movements of the horse.

Sir James Dacre’s rather cold face warmed with admiration and he reined over and stroked the black’s soft muzzle.

“You are a wonder, Selim,” he said.  “Your equal is not in the Kingdom; though, in a short dash, the Countess’ bay mare might put you to your speed.”

“Very likely,” said Aymer, “but I will wager there is none in England can beat him from the Solway to Land’s End.”

Dacre smiled—­“I would rather share the bet than take it.”

Then the talk led to the horses of France and Spain, and thence to the life there in general, for Sir James had never crossed the Channel, and he plied his companion with questions.  And so they jogged along in pleasant converse, and De Lacy saw that the reserved and quiet Dacre was in fact as sincere and good-hearted as the generously impulsive De Wilton.  And he warmed to them both; for he had anticipated cold looks, hatred, and jealousy, such as under like conditions he would have met with on the Continent.

And as they rode there came a faint hail from the front—­and thrice repeated.  The track at that point led through a wood and was straight away for half a mile, then it swung to the left.  Just near the turn were two horsemen; and the rearmost, when he saw his cry had been heard, waved his hat and gesticulated violently toward the other, who was several lengths in front.  Both were coming at top speed.

Sir James Dacre puckered his eyes and peered ahead.

“My sight is rather poor,” he said, “but from yonder fellow’s motions, I take it he wants us to stop the other—­an escape doubtless.”

Just then the one in the lead shot through a patch of sunlight and both Knights cried out.

“A woman!” said De Lacy.

“The Countess!” exclaimed Dacre.  “What may it mean?”

“She went riding with Lord Darby shortly after mid-day,” said Aymer.

“And that is Darby,” added Dacre, as the sun hit the second horseman.  “Pardieu!  I do not understand—­it cannot be she is fleeing from him.”

They drew rein, and watched the approaching pair.

“Well, if she is, she is succeeding,” Aymer observed.  “She is gaining on him at every jump.  St. Denis! how that horse of hers can run!”