“Because I’ve done such a dreadful thing. It was wicked. I had no right and—and—”
“Yes, I know. You were frightened. Well, I was, too.”
Molly straightened her shoulders and pretended contempt, saying:
“I didn’t know as gentlemen—‘thoroughbreds,’ you know—western thoroughbreds ever were fr-fri-ghtened. What—was—that?”
A curious cry had reached them and Molly finished her speech in a whisper. The horses, also, had heard it and had thrust back their ears in fear.
Just there the road skirted the edge of a forest and the cry had come from its depths. They peered into the shadows but could see nothing, and edging the pony close to Beelzebub, as Leslie’s mount was named, Molly repeated her question.
“Likely a wild cat, puma, or wolf. I don’t know,” he answered.
“Have you heard it before? Was it that scared you?”
“No, I was afraid something would happen to you, left behind, alone. I fancy we’re in no danger that way—” pointing forestward. “But—”
“‘But’—what? If you thought about me why didn’t you come back to look for me?”