"It was a mad thing to do," said Barnaby curtly; "risking her life over these fences—!"
"Come, come," said Rackham, "don't paint me too black. I took the greatest care of her. Didn't I?"
"I was looking on," said Barnaby.
He had turned to Susan at last, and she saw that his face was pale. Something in him responded to her look of rapture dashed.
"Poor little girl!" he said. "I didn't know—you cared about it—" Then he smiled ruefully. "By Jove!" he said. "You gave me a fright. I thought you'd get yourself killed a dozen times. And I had a bad start. I couldn't get up to you. There, don't let's look as if we were quarrelling, though under the circumstances,—do you think we should?"
She plucked up spirit to answer him in kind. "On the stage," she said, "the audiences would expect it."
"Well," he said, "we'll disappoint the audience.... You won your bet, Kilgour; it is my wife. Wasn't it wicked of her?"
She found herself trotting on at his side. Rackham had fallen back. It was Barnaby who directed her, who rode at her right hand; and a cheery crowd hemmed her in.
At the head of the procession hounds were moving on. Occasionally the authorities called a halt while they searched a patch of trees by the wayside, or turned aside to examine a hollow tree. But these were not serious diversions. Once, indeed, there was a whimper as the pack ran scampering into a small plantation, and the huntsman went in to see what it was, his scarlet glancing in the bare brown mist of larches.
"I know what'll happen to us," grumbled Kilgour, as the verdict was issued that it was empty. "We'll climb up on the top of Ranksboro' and the heavens will open on us."