The girl, not without some show of reluctance, obeyed, what appeared as much a mandate as a request; and, climbing to the croup, she extended her arms round the waist of him, who—though calling himself her lover—was, to her, an object of fear rather than affection.
Volume One—Chapter Four.
Having re-entered the gates of the park, Marion Wade checked her palfrey into a walk; and, at this pace, continued on towards the paternal mansion.
The scarlet that late tinted her cheeks had become subdued. There was pallor in its place. Her lips even showed signs of blanching.
In her eye there was a cowed look—as if she had committed crime, and feared discovery! But gazing on that face, you could scarce think of crime. It was too fair to be associated with sin.
She sate negligently in her saddle—the undulating outlines of her majestic form rendered more conspicuous by the movements of her palfrey, as it strained up the acclivity of the hill.
The hawk had been restored to its perch; but the gauntlet no longer shielded her wrist; and the pounces of the bird, penetrating the tender skin, had drawn blood. A tiny stream laced the silken epidermis of her hand, and trickled to the tips of her fingers.
She felt not the wound. She beheld not the blood. The emotions of her soul deadened the external senses; and, absorbed in the contemplation of her rash act—half repenting of it—she was conscious of nought else, till her palfrey came to a stop under the windows of the dwelling.