Reddin said nothing. He sat looking down at her. In the large landscape his figure was carved on the sky, slenderly minute; yet it was instinct with forces enough to uproot a thousand trees and become, by virtue of these, the centre of the picture. He looked at his best on horse-back, where his hardness and roughness appeared as necessary qualities, and his too great share of virility was used up in courage and will-power.
Hazel gazed defiantly back; but at last her eyelids flickered, and she turned away.
'I am,' Reddin repeated softly.
He was as sure of her as he was of the rabbits and hares he caught in spring-traps when hunger drove them counter to instinct. A power was on Hazel now, driving her against the one instinct of her life hitherto—the wild creature's instinct for flight and self-preservation. She said nothing.
Reddin was filled with a tumultuous triumph that Sally Haggard had never roused.
'I am,' he said again, and laughed as if he enjoyed the repetition.
'Come here!'
Hazel came slowly, looked up, and burst into tears.
'Hello! Tears already?' he said, concerned. 'Keep 'em till there's something to cry for.'
He dismounted and slipped the rein over his arm.
'What's up, Hazel Woodus?' He put one arm round her.