Psyche replied unabashed that it was all the same noise, and glowed again.
She had learnt how to steady her horse at a fence, how to hold him together galloping.
"And I want to hunt ever and always," she said—"always. I'll never live in Kent again."
There had been unguarded moments when Darby, riding home with his never-weary follower, had even told her how he felt his crippling.
"I had dreamt," he said one evening, "of a different life, little sprite, of someone that I cared for being with me—through it."
Psyche knew—the white glow faded a little and her eyes darkened.
"If one cared," she began, "nothing would matter."
"But that is it. She was too young, too. And now it's not my place to try to make her care. Go alone for all time, Psyche. I've thought that Stafford——" he added after a long pause.
"She thinks him a spy," said Psyche slowly, "and despises him for not joining."
"In the name of God, Grandjer—the foxy Tom that I lambasted ye for this morning—Grandjer, howld on!"