Heavenly in color they skirted the way: orange of a sugar-maple against the quivering blue-green of a balsam, coral of a swamp maple, the tender green of soft pines: and all reflected in the dark breast of a mountain pool past which she galloped like a rocket.
In her breast was the blackness of the water—the brilliant reflections painted her hopes of saving Una.
This wood road, an old lumber road, in which the zigzagging trail had given out, wound, now, around the mountain’s side.
And parallel with it—just below—ran a brawling mountain stream.
Pem had a sort of feeling that, as long as she lived, she would never lose the note of that stream—always it would flow parallel with her—it and its cry as it umpired the race.
It was going to be a tight race, that she saw. Revelation was lathered all over—wet as if she had ridden him through the water. In the moment that she had reined him in, his eyes had been wild and rolling; he had pranced about among the bushes, neck deliriously arched—nostrils smoking.
The other two horsewomen were still an eighth of a mile ahead.
Revel seemed to be going blindly, her neck stretched out, almost level; now and again she slipped back a step and then—again—she rocked like a boat; a quickly rolling motion that, if slower, would have been a pathetic wabble—and Una upon her back!
But the creature beside her was whipping her on, lashing her own tired horse frantically, too.
And the other pursuer, the youth on whom Pemrose had leaned, was now a hundred and fifty yards behind.