“He might at least help me on my horse!” she thought, in bitter resentment.
Perhaps tears blinded her. At any rate––and this was without pretence, and no part of her scheme––she did not see clearly what she was doing. It was nothing new to mount her pony from the level; she had done it a hundred times without mishap. But now, in her agitation, she stood somewhat too far away from Tuesday’s shoulder; and the pony, as ponies will sometimes do, 78 started forward the instant he felt the weight in the stirrup.
“Look out!” cried Haig.
It was too late. She missed the saddle; her right foot struck Tuesday’s back, and slipped off; and she fell sprawling on the ground, with her left foot fast in the stirrup.
“Whoa, Tuesday!” she cried shrilly as she fell.
Luckily the horse did not take alarm and run, as a less reliable animal might have done, dragging the girl under his heels. He stopped in his tracks, and stood obediently, even turning his head as if to see what damage had been done. It was enough. Marion was uninjured, but badly frightened; and her humiliation was complete. She lay on her back, struggling vainly to extricate her foot from the stirrup. Her coat skirts had fallen back, and––Thank Heaven for the riding breeches, and not what she had worn under divided skirts!
“Lie still!” yelled Haig, remembering what he had seen happen to men in such circumstances.
In three leaps he was at her side. With a swift movement (and none too gentle), he wrenched her foot loose from the stirrup, and helped her to sit up, dazed and trembling and very white.
“Your ankle––is it hurt?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know,” she said.