"You are not afraid?"
A flush of sheer delight in life flooded her cheeks.
"Afraid?" she laughed.
"Hortense! Hortense! Do you not hear the drunken revel? Do you know what it means? This world is full of what a maid must fear. 'Tis her fear protects her."
"Ah?" asks Hortense.
And she opened the tight-clasped hunting-cloak. A Spanish poniard hung against the inner folds.
"'Tis her courage must protect her. The wilderness teaches that," says Hortense, "the wilderness and men like Picot."
Then we clasped hands and ran like children from thicket to rock and rock to the long stretches of shingly shore. Behind came the blackamoor and the soldier. The salt spray flew in our faces, the wind through our hair; and in our hearts, a joy untold. Where a great obelisk of rock thrust across the way, Hortense halted. She stood on the lee side of the rock fanning herself with her hat.
"Now you are the old Hortense!"
"I am older, hundreds of years older," laughed Hortense.