“Well, I’m off!” she cried. “See you again at the ‘kill!’”
She caught up her riding-skirt, and ran across the hall and down the step. Longacre was after her. He felt a horrid responsibility for this mad bravado.
Her foot hardly pressed his hand as she sprang into the saddle.
Mrs. Budd clasped Thair’s arm.
“Bring her back! Oh, bring her back!” she entreated.
“Safe and sound—no danger,” he reassured her.
“Pretty rapid for the start,” he smiled to Holden, as he tucked up Bessie Lewis on an excited mare. “Can you hit the pace?”
“I’m with you,” Holden muttered, straddling a dancing bay. “Can’t let ’em go alone!”
They galloped in the wake of the mad riders. Julia’s habit fluttered at the front. The reckless spirit of her rose with the swinging pace. Just through the gate she wheeled left into a wagon-track over fields, a shortcut to the meet; Longacre followed, a neck behind. The rest, going at a more discreet pace, stuck to the sea road, so that the two reached the meet some few moments ahead, and waited, without a word to each other, with the few pink coats, among a yelping pack in a meadow ruffled over by the wind, ringed by live-oaks and somber cypresses. The others came pounding in, breaking through the trees in a rush of voices and color.
“Too far ahead of the procession!” cried Holden.