Maurice looked amaze. In all his experience—even in his own native land, famed for feminine braverie—above all in the way of bold riding—he had met no match for the clever equestrian before him.
His astonishment, mixed with admiration, hindered him from making a ready rejoinder.
“To speak truth,” continued the young lady, with an air of charming simplicity, “I was not sorry at being run off with. One sometimes gets tired of too much talk—of the kind called complimentary. I wanted fresh air, and to be alone. So you see, Mr Gerald, it was rather a bit of good fortune: since it saved explanations and adieus.”
“You wanted to be alone?” responded the mustanger, with a disappointed look. “I am sorry I should have made the mistake to have intruded upon you. I assure you, Miss Poindexter, I followed, because I believed you to be in danger.”
“Most gallant of you, sir; and now that I know there was danger, I am truly grateful. I presume I have guessed aright: you meant the Indians?”
“No; not Indians exactly—at least, it was not of them I was thinking.”
“Some other danger? What is it, sir? You will tell me, so that I may be more cautious for the future?”
Maurice did not make immediate answer. A sound striking upon his ear had caused him to turn away—as if inattentive to the interrogatory.
The Creole, perceiving there was some cause for his abstraction, likewise assumed a listening attitude. She heard a shrill scream, succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of hoofs—the conjunction of sounds causing the still atmosphere to vibrate around her.
It was no mystery to the hunter of horses. The words that came quick from his lips—though not designed—were a direct answer to the question she had put.