At that moment Lord Darby dashed up, his horse blown, its sides bloody with rowelling and flecked with foam.
"Thank God, Countess," he exclaimed, "you are not injured."
"Not so much as scratched, thanks to Sir Aymer de Lacy."
"Aye, Sir Aymer, it was cleverly done," said Darby; "a neater rescue methinks I never saw."
De Lacy bowed. "Whatever credit there may be, belongs solely to Selim," he said. "But for his speed and intelligence I had never reached the Countess." Then he led the black forward. "And he asks the honor of carrying her back to Pontefract."
"Not so," Darby interrupted; "that is my privilege," and he swung his own horse around.
The Countess was struggling with her hat.
"But Wilda," she protested.
"Is at the castle now, if she made the hill in safety," said Dacre, watching the scene with the glint of a smile.
The Countess still hesitated—and Darby stepped confidently forward and dropped his hand to put her up.