The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon. He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an unseen way.
Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an irrepressible burst of praise: "Jesu dulsis memoria!" Then, when she fell silent: "Dulsis! Dulsis!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and cantered faster.
Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.
Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.
Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and slipped again.
With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing through the undergrowth.
Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the tree trunks.
Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart was now so blissfully at rest.
Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.
"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose to ride alone."