With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go forward.
At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.
With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a swift canter.
Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.
Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home.
* * * * * *
It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted in the courtyard.
She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire confidence.
"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire."
Then she turned, speaking quickly and low.