A hoof-stroke is heard. There is a horseman coming through the wood. He is not yet in sight; but the sound of his horse’s hoofs striking the solid turf—tells that he is riding upon the track, and towards her.
There is an opening in the forest glade, of some six roods in extent. It is cut in twain by a path, which parts from the high road near one of the gates of Bulstrode Park; thence treading over the hills in a north-westerly direction.
On this path rides Marion Wade, straying, or dallying—certainly not travelling.
She has entered the aforementioned opening. Near its centre stands a tree—a beech of magnificent dimensions—whose wide-spreading boughs seem determined to canopy the whole area of the opening. The road runs beneath its branches.
Under its shadow, the fair equestrian checks her palfrey to a stand—as if to shelter, hawk, hound, and horse, from the fervent rays of the noon-day sun.
But no: her object is different. She has halted there to wait the approach of the horseman; and, at this moment, neither hawk, hound, nor horse claims the slightest share of her thoughts.
She sits scanning the road in the direction whence the hoof-strokes are heard. Her eyes sparkle with a pleasant anticipation.
The horseman soon appears, cantering around a corner—a rustic in rude garb, astride of a common roadster!
Surely he is not the expected one of Marion Wade?
The question is answered by the scornful exclamation that escapes from her pouted lips.