“No, mistress,” said the falconer. “I dare not. The rail is too low and the bridge is too narrow.”
“Hand it to me at once, I say!” The face of Cytherea’s wilful rider was full of menace.
Never before had the falconer dared to oppose her will, but it was almost certain death if now he obeyed it.
“Do you not hear me, sirrah?”
“You shall have it, mistress, as soon as we are across the bridge.”
There was nothing for it but to wait until they had gained the opposite bank. Once among the crocuses, the lady reined in the still mutinous Cytherea with no light hand. She then turned her unruly steed to meet that of the falconer.
“Now, sirrah!”
The gauntleted hand was held out grimly. The eyes were like stars in their dark luster; and in the center of each cheek burned a glowing crimson.
John Markham lifted the merlin from the fist of his mistress. Then he gave her the whip. There was not a drop of blood in his cheeks. His fixed, unfearing gaze had not a shade of defiance; but it was as if the upturned face almost invited that which awaited it.
“You fool!”