The peremptory tone irritated me, and far from doing as I was bid, I gave Marigold a touch with the whip. Her blood was already up; she reared and tried hard to throw me. Mr. Harrod leaned forward and caught at her bridle.
"Don't, don't," cried I, petulantly. "You only chafe her; leave her alone."
But still he leaned forward towards me and held on to the horse, and still we thundered on over the soft ground across the empty plain. There was no road; we were quite alone; and at any moment I knew we might come upon some unseen dike that would send Marigold upon her knees and me over her neck.
I knew that if ever I were in danger of my life I was in danger of it then; but the sense of peril, and of the strong arm—that strong arm—ready to save me if it could, his breath that came hot upon my cheek, his eyes that burned upon me though I could not see them—all lifted me into a strange delirium of excitement, of anger, of delight. Yes; I think that, if I thought at all, I wished that that ride might go on forever. But it came to an end soon enough. Marigold stumbled at nothing, she flew straight as an arrow from a shaft, until at last she knew her master, and was still.
"Now, Miss Maliphant," said he, quietly, after a panting minute or two, "won't you be so kind as to give me that whip?"
I looked at him; my cheek was burning, my bosom rose and fell wildly.
"No," answered I; "why should I?"
He smiled. "Well, I know you won't use it again," he answered, almost vexatiously careless of my discourtesy. "I hope you have had a lesson that Marigold can't be tampered with."
"I wasn't in the least bit frightened," I said, in a low voice.
"Upon my word you're a splendid girl," said he, still looking at me.