Giving her bridle to a groom, she dropped lightly to her feet; and glided silently towards a side-door of the house—intending to enter unobserved. In her own chamber she might more securely give way to that tumult of thoughts and passions, now agitating her bosom.
Her design was frustrated. As she approached the portal, a clear voice, ringing along the corridor, called her by name; and, the instant after a fair form—almost as fair as her own—issuing forth, glided up by her side.
It was Lora—the cousin spoken of in her late soliloquy—Lora Lovelace.
“Give me the little pet,” cried Lora, reaching forward, and lifting the hawk from its perch. “Oh, Marion!” continued she, drawing back at sight of the blood. “What is this? You are wounded?”
“Ah! indeed yes. I did not notice it before. The kestrel must have caused it. The wicked jade. Her claws need coping. Don’t trouble about it, child. It’s nothing.”
“But where is your gauntlet, Marion? If it had been on your hand, you would not have got scratched in this fashion?”
“Ah! the gauntlet? Where is it? Let me see!”
Marion made search about her dress—in the crown of her beaver—everywhere that might give concealment to a glove. An idle search.
“I must have dropped it!” added she, feigning surprise. “Perhaps it is sticking somewhere about the saddle? If not, I must have lost it upon the road. It don’t signify. I must buy me a new pair—that’s all.”
“Dearest cousin!” said Lora, speaking in a tone of earnest appeal, “the sight of blood always makes me think of danger. I am never happy when you are out alone on these distant hawking excursions. Marion, you should take attendants with you, or remain within the enclosures. I am sure there’s danger outside.”