“’Sh! I might have known by the clattering it wasn’t the footfall of that noble steed. A peasant!”
The despised rustic rides on—as he passes making awkward obeisance, by a spasmodic pluck at his forelock.
His salutation is scarcely returned: or only with a nod, apparently supercilious. He wonders at this: for he knows that the lady is the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade—Mistress Marion—usually so condescending to, and a favourite with, all of his class. He cannot guess the chagrin he has given her.
He is soon out of her sight, and equally out of her thoughts: for it is not the sound of his departing hoof-strokes her ear is now re-quickened to catch; but others of bolder bound, and clearer resonance awaking the echoes of the wood.
These are soon heard more distinctly; and presently a second horseman appears, advancing around an angle of the road.
A striking contrast does the new comer present to the rustic who has just ridden past. A cavalier of elegant carriage, spurred and plumed; mounted on a superb steed, of jet-black colour—his counter clouted with flakes of snow-white froth loosened from his chamfering lips.
A glance at the horse is sufficient to show that he is the “noble steed” mentioned in that muttered soliloquy; and half a glance at the rider proclaims him the individual for whom Marion Wade has been waiting.
As yet she has not given him half a glance. She has not even turned her eyes in the direction whence he is approaching. She sits silent in her saddle, and to all appearance calmly indifferent. But this air of insouciance is only assumed. The quivering of the kestrel, roosted upon her wrist, tells that she is trembling; while the high heaving of her bosom indicates the presence of some strong emotion.
Going at a gentle gallop, the horseman glides out into the opening.
Perceiving the lady, he checks his steed to a slower pace—as if to pass more respectfully.