"Now you are getting tired," he says, after a mile or two.
"How do you know?" she asks, curiously.
"Because I can see your hands trembling," he replies. "Give me the reins now, and if you are a good girl you shall drive all the way home."
It is a little thing that he should have such regard for her comfort, but it does not pass unnoticed by Leslie, as she resigns the reins with a "Thank you, your grace."
His face clouds again, however, and he bestows an altogether unnecessary cut on the horses, who plunge forward.
"There is St. Martin, and there is the castle," she says, presently. "Is it not pretty?"
"Very," he assents, but he looks round inquiringly. "I'm looking for some place in which to put the cattle up," he explains. "Horses don't care much for ruins, unless there are hay and oats."
"There is a small inn at the foot of the castle," says Leslie.
"That's all right then," he rejoins, cheerfully. "Hurry up now, my beauties, and let's show them what Vinson's nags can do."
They dash up the road to the inn at a clinking pace, and pull up in masterly style.