Even the rude Regulators—with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of Divine interference—cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice.
One and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying Maurice Gerald upon his back.
After his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. It is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view.
There is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. A lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a calèche—her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators.
It is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. In her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer—tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: “God have mercy on the guilty man!”
Delayed a little at mounting—and more in procuring the lazo—Maurice Gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. On clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead—a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost.
He thinks nothing of this. Confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear.
And the blood-bay answers his expectations. As if joyed at being relieved from his inert load—to him an incubus inexplicable—and inspired by the pressure of his master’s knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf—in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity.