She had gathered up the reins as she gave her horse the spur, and she was now going down the hill at a breakneck speed. Something in the recklessness of her manner of speaking, and the way she urged her horse on gave Roger a strange and poignant feeling that she was not so happy in the prospect of that long journey and absence from France at the King’s desire. But all he said was, as they sped onward through the mysterious twilight,—
“Wherever you go, mademoiselle, be it near or far, be it for long or for little, you take with you the everlasting regard of Roger Egremont.”
She turned her face away from him as he spoke, and had he not at that very moment caught her horse by the bit, and almost thrown him upon his haunches, Michelle would have been in a ditch which yawned before them, and of which the bridge was gone. She was an accomplished horsewoman, and quickly recovered herself; but her narrow escape from accident did not make her prudent. Rather did she ride faster and more recklessly. Roger determined that Merrylegs should keep up with her, if he had to buy another horse the next day. They passed, at a sweeping gallop, the cottage where François’s horse was standing. The poor youth was just putting his foot into the stirrup, and he had hard work to catch up with them, so hard were they riding.
“We shall find Madame de Beaumanoir much displeased with us,” he cried, panting, as he followed after them, belaboring his poor beast.
“No, no,” cried Michelle, turning her head, and letting her horse follow his own lead, except for a restraining hand laid upon her bridle by Roger. “Tell her that you were drinking at a wayside tavern, or studying some ribald verses of Villon, or any other form of—of—gayety, and she will forgive you.”
It seemed as if the recklessness in Roger’s blood had communicated itself to Michelle. Never before had Roger seen her so full of wild spirits. Their horses kept up a rattling pace, and, good rider though she was, she would have come to grief more than once, but for Roger’s watchful eyes and ever-ready hand. When they slackened their pace a little, to blow their horses, she laughed and talked with a heedless gayety quite new in her, and even sang the song that Dicky Egremont liked so much, about
“Amis, passons-le gaîment!”
“Poor François,” she said, laughing, “he and I should exchange identities. I should be the man. I love to ride thus, far and fast by night; I fear nothing.”
“Because nothing has ever befallen you, mademoiselle,” answered Roger. “’Twould make me very unhappy to know that you rode thus alone by night. No road is safe after dark. The beggars by day are foot-pads by night.”
“Well, then, if they stopped me, I should tell them plainly that I carried neither money nor valuables with me when I rode.”