Margaret glanced around; then they saw her settle back in her saddle and saw her elbows working as she bent all her strength on the reins. Cardinal’s head came up, he plunged once or twice, and then came down to a canter as the pursuers caught up with him. Phillip and John flung themselves from their horses and the former seized Cardinal’s bridle. Margaret dropped the reins and put her hands to her head; her hair had come undone and was hanging down in long brown plaits. When John saw her face he found it pale but smiling.
“You’re all right!” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes.” She leaned forward, folding her hands upon the pommel. “I didn’t mind after we were off the hill.”
John placed his own hand over hers. She felt it trembling and looked down at him in surprise, her brown eyes narrowing a little as they met his.
“I thought—I feared——!” He broke off with a gulp, his white face working convulsively. Margaret’s eyes dropped, and the colour, which had begun to steal back into her cheeks, fled again quickly. She withdrew her hands slowly from under his and her voice was uncertain.
“I’m sorry I gave you both such a fright.”
“Shucks!” cried Phillip, gazing wrathfully at Cardinal; “it wasn’t your fault! I’ll kill this brute when I get him home!”
“No, Phil, you mustn’t hurt Cardinal. It wasn’t his fault either. He was more scared than any of us. It was that awful engine.”
“Your gloves are torn!” exclaimed John. She held them up smilingly; each was ripped up the palm. “Let me take them off,” he begged. She hesitated and then held them down. John peeled them off one after the other, leaving bare two red and swollen hands.