For a moment she stared down at his face, which was not so very far below her own, without speaking. Her great clear eyes were distended, like those of her horse, and in the twilight her face seemed to wear an unearthly pallor. His hand was still upon her bridle. She withdrew her eyes from his, and asked, petulantly:
“Why did you stop my horse?”
“He was running away with you.”
She laughed disdainfully as she repeated!
“Running away—with me!”
“I heard you scream.”
“Yes. Because I was enjoying myself.”
“No one ought to ride at such a pace as that,” he said, coolly, still with his brown eyes fixed upon hers. “It is dangerous.”
“Not to me. And who are you, and what right have you to lecture me? Take your hand off my bridle, and let me go.”
As she spoke she gave a sharp cut with her whip on her horse’s shoulder. The animal reared and plunged, and simultaneously the clear, sharp “ping” of a shot rang through the silent woods.