CHAPTER XLII
THE DESERTED HUNTING LODGE
Our own horses were already at the appointed place, together with Pavloff and the Duke’s little band of “recruits;” sturdy young moujiks these, as I saw now by the gray light of dawn, cleaner and more intelligent-looking than most of their class.
They were freshly horsed, for they had taken advantage of the confusion in the town to “commandeer” re-mounts,—as they say in South Africa. There were horses for Anne, and her cousin, too. Pavloff, like his son, was a man who forgot nothing.
Anne had already revived from the faintness that overcame her on the steps of the synagogue. I had heard her talking to Loris, as we came along; more than once she declared she was quite able to walk, but he only shook his head and strode on.
He set her down now, and seemed to be demurring about her horse. I heard her laugh,—how well I knew that laugh!—though I had already swung myself into the saddle and edged a little away.
“It is not the first time I have had to ride thus. Look you, Maurice, it goes well enough, does it not?” she said, riding towards me.
I had to look round at that.