Now, at a walk, the horses moved forward side by side through the pale, glistening sea of grass stretching out on every side.
Over a hidden pond a huge heron stood guard, stiff and shapeless as a weather-beaten stake. Blackbirds with crimson-slashed shoulders rose in clouds from the reeds, only to settle again as they passed amid a ceaseless chorus of harsh protest. Once a pair of summer duck came speeding overhead, and Burleson, looking up, exclaimed:
“There’s a bird I never shoot at. It’s too beautiful.”
The girl turned her head, serious gray eyes questioning his.
“Have you ever seen a wood-duck?—a drake? in full plumage?” he asked.
“Often—before Mr. Grier came.”
Burleson fell silent, restless in his saddle, then said:
“I hope you will see many wood-duck now. My boats on Spirit Water are always at Mr. Elliott’s disposal—and at yours.”
She made the slightest sign of acknowledgment, but said nothing. Once or twice she rose upright, standing straight in her stirrups to scan the distance under a small, inverted hand. East and north the pine forest girdled the vlaie; west and south hardwood timber laced the sky-line with branches partly naked, and the pine’s outposts of white birch and willow glimmered like mounds of crumpled gold along the edges of the sea of grass.
“There is the stream!” said Burleson, suddenly.