“The gate is lower down,” he said; but Esmeralda laughed, and with a cool “Can she jump?” put the mare at the fence.
Trafford held his breath, for though the horse was a good one, he did not know whether it would clear the posts or refuse, and, perhaps, throw its rider; but the mare, urged by a touch of the whip, rose freely, and went over like a bird.
Esmeralda pulled up on the other side and waited for him, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with enjoyment. He paused for a moment to look at her, almost startled by her beauty, then he popped over steadily to her side.
“That was well done!” he said. “You would hold your own in the hunting-field, Esmeralda.”
“Do you hunt in England?” she said. “I haven’t seen any big game—excepting those deer, and they’re half tame.”
Trafford described the hunting of the fox as pursued in England, and Esmeralda listened with deep interest.
“I should like that!” she said. “Yes, I should like it very much! We used to have hunting-parties from Three Star, but we had to stalk the game and shoot it. It was hard work, and you had to be a good shot with the rifle. Varley could bring them down at a tremendous distance—further than I could, though he used to say that I had the best eyes in the camp.”
She chattered about the camp and the old life as they rode along, and Trafford listened almost in silence. Now and again she would beg for a gallop, and would put the mare at racing speed over the smooth turf of the downs, so that Trafford had hard work to keep his heavier nag up with her. She seemed quite incapable of fatigue, and the light shone still more brightly in her eyes at every mile. At last, as they reached an outlying cottage, he insisted upon a halt. She was about to spring from the saddle, but he held up his hand with a smile.
“You must let me help you down,” he said.