When in the first burst he had tested the mare’s wind, this chase of her, indeed, was sheer delight.  Through glades, over fallen tree-trunks, in bracken up to the hocks, out across the open, past a herd of amazed and solemn deer, over rotten ground all rabbit-burrows, till just as he thought he was up to her, she slipped away by a quick turn round trees.  Mischief incarnate, but something deeper than mischief, too!  He came up with her at last, and leaned over to seize her rein.  With a cut of her whip that missed his hand by a bare inch, and a wrench, she made him shoot past, wheeled in her tracks, and was off again like an arrow, back amongst the trees—­lying right forward under the boughs, along the neck of her little horse.  Then out from amongst the trees she shot downhill.  Right down she went, full tilt, and after her went Lennan, lying back, and expecting the bay mare to come down at every stride.  This was her idea of fun!  She switched round at the bottom and went galloping along the foot of the hill; and he thought:  Now I’ve got her!  She could not break back up that hill, and there was no other cover for fully half a mile.

Then he saw, not thirty yards in front, an old sandpit; and Great God! she was going straight at it!  And shouting frantically, he reined his mare outwards.  But she only raised her whip, cut the magpie horse over the flank, and rode right on.  He saw that little demon gather its feet and spring—­down, down, saw him pitch, struggle, sink—­and she, flung forward, roll over and lie on her back.  He felt nothing at the moment, only had that fixed vision of a yellow patch of sand, the blue sky, a rook flying, and her face upturned.  But when he came on her she was on her feet, holding the bridle of her dazed horse.  No sooner did he touch her, than she sank down.  Her eyes were closed, but he could feel that she had not fainted; and he just held her, and kept pressing his lips to her eyes and forehead.  Suddenly she let her head fall back, and her lips met his.  Then opening her eyes, she said:  “I’m not hurt, only—­funny.  Has Magpie cut his knees?”

Not quite knowing what he did, he got up to look.  The little horse was cropping at some grass, unharmed—­the sand and fern had saved his knees.  And the languid voice behind him said:  “It’s all right—­ you can leave the horses.  They’ll come when I call.”

Now that he knew she was unhurt, he felt angry.  Why had she behaved in this mad way—­given him this fearful shock?  But in that same languid voice she went on:  “Don’t be cross with me.  I thought at first I’d pull up, but then I thought:  ’If I jump he can’t help being nice’—­so I did—­Don’t leave off loving me because I’m not hurt, please.”

Terribly moved, he sat down beside her, took her hands in his, and said: 

“Nell!  Nell! it’s all wrong—­it’s madness!”

“Why?  Don’t think about it!  I don’t want you to think—­only to love me.”