Yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his companion. How could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart? Of course he ascribes it to that.
He but half interprets the cause. Were he to look steadfastly into the eye of Louise Poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future.
They ride on through the trees—but not beyond ear-shot of the people they have left behind them.
Suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the Creole—her features lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered her soul.
She stops reflectingly—her escort constrained to do the same.
“Mr Yancey,” says she, after a short pause, “my saddle has got loose. I cannot sit comfortably in it. Have the goodness to look to the girths!”
Yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon him.
He examines the girths. In his opinion they do not want tightening. He does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all his strength.
“Stay!” says the fair equestrian, “let me alight. You will get better at it then.”
Without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and stands by the side of the mustang.