“And—­you like it, Hugh?”

“Yes, I like it,” he replied, and added enigmatically, “but I don’t understand it.”

She was silent, and oddly satisfied, trusting to fate to send more mysteries.

Two days had not passed when that restlessness for which she watched so narrowly revived.  He wandered aimlessly about the place, and flared up into such a sudden violent temper at one of the helpers in the fields that the man ran as for his life, and refused to set foot again on any of the Chiltern farms.  In the afternoon he sent for Honora to ride with him, and scolded her for keeping him waiting.  And he wore a spur, and pressed his horse so savagely that she cried out in remonstrance, although at such times she had grown to fear him.

“Oh, Hugh, how can you be so cruel!”

“The beast has no spirit,” he said shortly.  “I’ll get one that has.”

Their road wound through the western side of the estate towards misty rolling country, in the folds of which lay countless lakes, and at length they caught sight of an unpainted farmhouse set amidst a white cloud of apple trees in bloom.  On the doorstep, whittling, sat a bearded, unkempt farmer with a huge frame.  In answer to Hugh’s question he admitted that he had a horse for sale, stuck his knife in the step, rose, and went off towards the barn near by; and presently reappeared, leading by a halter a magnificent black.  The animal stood jerking his head, blowing and pawing the ground while Chiltern examined him.

“He’s been ridden?” he asked.

The man nodded.

Chiltern sprang to the ground and began to undo his saddle girths.  A sudden fear seized Honora.

“Oh, Hugh, you’re not going to ride him!” she exclaimed.

“Why not?  How else am I going to find out anything about him?”

“He looks—­dangerous,” she faltered.

“I’m tired of horses that haven’t any life in them,” he said, as he lifted off the saddle.

“I guess we’d better get him in the barn,” said the farmer.

Honora went behind them to witness the operation, which was not devoid of excitement.  The great beast plunged savagely when they tightened the girths, and closed his teeth obstinately against the bit; but the farmer held firmly to his nose and shut off his wind.  They led him out from the barn floor.

“Your name Chiltern?” asked the farmer.

“Yes,” said Hugh, curtly.

“Thought so,” said the farmer, and he held the horse’s head.

Honora had a feeling of faintness.

“Hugh, do be careful!” she pleaded.

He paid no heed to her.  His eyes, she noticed, had a certain feverish glitter of animation, of impatience, such as men of his type must wear when they go into battle.  He seized the horse’s mane, he put his foot in the stirrup; the astonished animal gave a snort and jerked the bridle from the farmer’s hand.  But Chiltern was in the saddle, with knees pressed tight.