Jack was going to the horse-show because, if anything could share a place in his heart with art, it was fine horses. He had almost been born on horseback, and there were few better riders alive. Since horses had been retired from utilitarian service, the art of breeding had been cultivated, and magnificent animals were produced.
As he reached the broad flight of steps at the front of the building, bugles announced the approach of the royal party. The king and queen, simple and unostentatious persons, drove up in a carriage-and-four of the fashion of fifty years ago. The popularity of the monarch was attested by the cordial greetings of the populace. The old man’s stately head was uncovered, and he bowed with kindly smiles at the acclaim. On the platform at the top of the steps a group of officials awaited him, foremost among them Terence Mayne, with a tall black-haired woman by his side. Jack happened to get himself within arm’s reach of this woman; she slowly turned her head, and their eyes met.
At first her smooth cheeks paled; then she lowered her eyes, and her face was covered with a blush. At the same moment the music of ten thousand silver bells sounded; the royal party reached their hosts and changes of position occurred in the group, so that the black-haired girl disappeared. But her image had entered Jack’s soul and banished all else except the purpose to follow her forever!
Availing himself, unobtrusively, of his great strength, he made his way to the interior immediately in the wake of the royalties. The spectacle was astonishing—an oval of blue and gold nine hundred feet in diameter surrounding the dark red tan-bark of the arena. From above the seats, which accommodated one hundred thousand spectators, arches rose to the spring of the tower, meeting at the base of the golden dome, through whose central aperture further heights were visible, with frostwork arabesques, ascending into a misty vagueness of rainbow light. The royal box was in the center of the middle circle of seats, and to the left of it Jack soon identified the gray hair and stalwart figure of Terence Mayne chatting with the Maharaja of Lucknow. But the girl of his soul was nowhere to be seen.
“Miriam Mayne is to ride in the ninth race, I hear,” said some one to some one else at his elbow. Miriam! That must be she! How he worshipped the name!
At another bugle-blast, several hundred beautiful animals entered the ring and began to move round it. Many of the riders were women. The usual riding-costume for both sexes was a close-fitting silken tunic and leggings: the hair of the women flowed loose from a fillet, or hung in braids. As the procession passed him Jack noted in the ninth rank a rider on a white Arab. Dense black hair streamed out from beneath her fillet; the movements of her body were full of supple dignity, replying to those of her horse; she rode without saddle or bridle; her dress was gray silk embroidered with gold, and in her right hand she carried a red rose. Miriam!
Jack leaned far over the balustrade. Miriam Mayne, in the magic of a moment, had thrown wide the gates of his heart and transformed the boy dreamer into the lover full grown. She was blood to his heart and air to his lungs. To be hers—to make her his!
As she drew near she did not look toward him; but her Arab began to curvet and dance, and she playfully struck him on his glossy neck with the rose. Hereupon the beautiful creature reared erect; she flung her body forward, and in the act the rose somehow escaped from her hand and fell into Jack’s breast. She passed on.
Had she meant it? Jack dared not believe so. He had never considered the effect upon a woman of his commanding stature and noble bearing. Many a fair woman had followed him with her eyes, in vain.
But here was her rose, the most sacred object he had ever possessed! Did it not create some ineffable understanding between them?