Over and over they rolled, on the top and close to the margin of the steep cliff, a mixed-up mass, as it seemed to Herbert’s terrified eyes, of habit, light curls, black hoofs, gray mane, and tail. Quick as lightning he had dismounted and gone to the rescue. How he managed he never remembered; but by a great effort, and, as he thought, after the lapse of nearly an age of time, he succeeded in disengaging Miss Prioleau from her horse.
She had fainted. Her face was blanched quite white; a small stream of crimson was trickling from one temple as though she had received a mortal hurt. To bring water in his hunting-hat from a spring hard by, to sprinkle her brow and chafe her hands, was all that Herbert could do until the arrival of a number of others, among whom were one or two eager but officious ladies, and the affrighted general. To them he resigned his charge, but he waited anxiously a little way off to hear how it fared with the poor girl.
Happily she soon came to. The shock of her fall had deprived her of consciousness; a small stone had hit her forehead; but these were the worst injuries she had endured. Very soon she was able to remount her horse and ride slowly home.
Herbert felt first a little neglected, although, as he told himself, he had really no reason to expect any extravagant thanks. Probably no one knew that it was he who had extricated Miss Prioleau from her perilous predicament, the general and his daughter least of all, and what did it matter if they did? The service was a very trifling one, after all, and he had only done what any other man would have done in his place.
He was quite wrong, however, in supposing that those whom he had served were ungrateful. Next morning came a formal but most courteously-worded letter of thanks from the general, and with it a letter from Mrs. Prioleau, repeating her husband’s phrases, and winding up with a very friendly invitation to dine at an early day.
Herbert gladly accepted, full of joy at the prospect of meeting Miss Prioleau again. He hardly considered how far the acquaintance, if allowed to ripen, was likely to affect his peace of mind.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
To the young military officer in whom the reverential spirit is not entirely quenched, the British general is often a very awful person indeed. A halo of professional glory surrounds the great man; strange powers—particularly as to leave—are vested in him; his frequent frown is terrific, his occasional smile fails to reassure. To the officer whose early days were spent in the ranks, and who has never seen the general behind the scenes, so to speak, as an English gentleman no better than others of his class, the formidable effect is intensified, and a great gulf seems to separate the two.