In an instant his right hand closed hard upon mine; held it, hard pressed, on the pommel.
"I think I want to answer you," he said, speaking slowly, deliberately, without the slightest trace of excitement in his passionless voice.
He was looking into the woods—not at me—as he spoke, and I knew that at that moment his soul was wandering afar from mine; it was with some one in the past. Suddenly, a hot, unreasonable wave of jealousy overwhelmed me; I yielded to the impulse to pull my hand from under his.
"It is not my hand he is clasping, and pressing with the strength of a press-block on the pommel; it's that other woman's!" I said to myself, making a second determined effort to release my hand.
He whirled about in his saddle, looking me directly in the eyes. He read my thought of him.
"Let your hand lie there, quietly, under mine," he said sternly; "it's your hand, remember, not another's."
The tense muscles of my hand relaxed. It lay passive under the pressure of his. I waited, quiescent. I realized that the Past had been roused from its lair. I must wait until it should seek covert again of its own accord, before speaking one word.
"I want to answer you—and answer as you alone should be answered: Yes, I have felt old—centuries old—"
He caught the bridle rein under the thumb of his right hand as it lay over mine. The left he thrust into his pocket; drew out a match-safe, a wax-taper. I, meanwhile, was wondering what it all meant; dreading developments, yet longing to know.
He reached for an overhanging branch of birch and broke off a small twig of tender young green. To do so, he removed his hand from mine which I kept on the pommel. I saw that the Past was still prowling, and it behooved me not to irritate, not to enrage by any show of distrust; nor did I feel any.