“Design!” murmured Marion Wade, in a low soft voice, whose very trembling betokened its truth.
The abyss of ceremony no longer lay between them. That one word had bridged it.
Henry Holtspur sprang from his saddle, and glided in among the trees.
In another instant their arms were entwined; their lips in mutual contact; and their hearts pressed close together, beating responses, sweet as the pulsations of celestial life.
“Adieu! sweet Marion, adieu!” cried the lover, as she glided from his arms—reluctant to let her leave.
“She will be the last love of my life!” he muttered, as he leaped into his saddle almost without touching stirrup.
The trained steed stood at rest, till his rider was fairly fixed in the seat. He had remained silent and motionless throughout that sweet interview of the lovers—its sole witness. Proudly champing his bit, he seemed exulting in the fair conquest his master had made—as he had shown himself after the triumph of yesterday. Perhaps Hubert had some share in achieving the victory of love, as of war?
The steed stirred not till he felt the spur; and even then, as if participating in the reluctance of his rider, he moved but slowly from the spot.