"Mount me," she said to Martin Goodfellow, as she passed him; and it was Martin who swung her into the saddle.
Then she trembled at what she had done, in yielding to this impulse which made her shrink from Hugh.
As the black mane of his horse drew level with Icon's head, and side by side they rode out from the courtyard, she feared a thunder-cloud on the Knight's brow, and a sullen silence, as the best she could expect. But calm and cheerful, his voice fell on her ear; and glancing at him furtively, she still saw on his face that light which dazzled her heart. Yet no word did he speak which all might not have heard, and not once did he lay his hand on hers. Each time they dismounted, she saw him sign to Martin Goodfellow, and it was Martin who helped her to alight.
All this, in rapid retrospect, passed through Mora's mind as she stood alone beside her splendid Knight, miserably conscious that she had shivered, and that he knew it; and fearful lest he divined the shrinking of her soul away from him, away from love, away from all for which love stood. Alas, alas! Why did this man—this most human, ardent, loving man—hang all his hopes of happiness upon the heart of a nun? Would it be possible that he should understand, that eight years of cloistered life cannot be renounced in a day?
Mora looked at him again.
The stern profile might well be about to say: "Shudder again, and I will do to thee that which shall give thee cause to shudder indeed!"
Yet, at that moment he spoke, and his voice was infinitely gentle.
"Yonder rides a true friend," he said. "One who has learned love's deepest lesson."
"What is love's deepest lesson?" she asked.
He turned and looked at her, and the fire of his dark eyes was drowned in tenderness.