On this occasion she was in the humor to dare the impossible; dare through sheer irritability of heart—­not mind.  And so she saddled Lethe—­an unregenerate pinto of the Southern Trail, whose concealed devilishness forcibly reminded one of Balzac’s famous description:  “A clenched fist hidden in an empty sleeve.”

She had been forbidden to ride the pinto ever since the day it was brought home to her with irrefutable emphasis that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  It was more of a parabola she described, when, bucked off, her head smashed the ground, but the simile serves.

But she would ride Lethe to-night.  The other horses were too comfortable.  They served to irritate the bandit passions, not to subdue them.  She panted for some one, something, to break to her will.

Lethe felt that there was a passion that night riding her; a passion that far surpassed her own.  Womanlike, she decided to arbitrate.  She would wait until this all-powerful passion burned itself out; then she could afford to safely agitate her own.  It would not have grown less in the necessary interim.  So, much to Sue’s surprise, the filly was as gentle as the proverbial lamb.

As she turned for home, Waterbury rode out of the deepening shadows behind her.  He had left the colonel at his breeding-farm.  Waterbury and Sue rode in silence.  The girl was giving all her attention to her thoughts.  What was left over was devoted to the insistent mouth of Lethe, who ever and anon tested the grip on her bridle-rein; ascertaining whether or not there were any symptoms of relaxation or abstraction.

It is human nature to grow tired of being good.  Waterbury’s better nature had been in the ascendancy for over a week.  He thought he could afford to draw on this surplus balance to his credit.  He was riding very close to Sue.  He had encroached, inch by inch, but her oblivion had not been inclination, as Waterbury fancied.  He edged nearer.  As she did not heed the steal, he took it for a grant.  We fit facts to our inclination.  The animal arose mightily in him.  In stooping to avoid an overhanging branch he brushed against her.  The contact set him aflame.  He was hungrily eyeing her profile.  Then in a second, he had crushed her head to his shoulder, and was fiercely kissing her again and again—­lips, hair, eyes; eyes, hair, lips.

“There!” he panted, releasing her.  He laughed foolishly, biting his nails.  His mouth felt as if roofed with sand-paper.  His face was white, but not as white as hers.

She was silent.  Then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and very carefully wiped her lips.  She was absolutely silent, but a pulse was beating—­beating in her slim throat.  The action, her silence, inflamed Waterbury.  He made to crush her waist with his ravenous arm.  Then, for the first time, she turned slowly, and her narrowed eyes met his.  He saw, even in the gloom.  Again he laughed, but the onrushing blood purpled his neck.