"Where my horse chooses to take me . . . and as far as he can carry me."
"Won't you wait a few minutes?"
"No."
"I should have liked to thank you. . . . So would Miss Bakefield. . . ."
"Miss Bakefield has my best wishes!"
She mounted. Antonio snatched at the bridle, as though determined to detain her, and began to speak to her in a choking voice and in a language which Simon did not understand.
She did not move. Her beautiful, austere face did not change. She waited, with her eyes on the horizon, until the Indian, discouraged, released the bridle. Then she rode away. Not once had her eyes met Simon's.
She rode away, mysterious and secretive to the last. Simon's refusal, his conduct during the night which they had passed in the prehistoric dwelling must have humiliated her profoundly; and the best proof was this departure without farewell. But, on the other hand, what miracles of dogged heroism she must have wrought to cross this sinister region by herself and to save not only the man who had spurned her but the woman whom that man loved above all things in this world!
A hand rested on Simon's shoulder:
"You, Isabel!" he said.