But she had already slipped from the saddle and was at his bridle rein. “No—no. You must get down. We have plenty of time. We'll rest here till you are better.”
There was nothing for it but to obey. He dismounted, feeling himself a humbug and a scoundrel. He sat down on a mossy rock, his back against another, while she trailed the reins and joined him.
“You are better now, aren't you?” she asked, as she seated herself on an adjacent bowlder.
Gruffly he answered: “I'm all right.”
She thought she understood. Men do not like to be coddled. She began to talk cheerfully of the first thing that came into her head. He made the necessary monosyllabic responses when her speech put it up to him, but she saw that his mind was brooding over something else. Once she saw his gaze go up to the point on the cliff reached by the fugitive.
But it was not until they were again in the saddle that he spoke.
“Yes, he got what was coming to him. He had no right to complain.”
“That's what my father says. I don't deny the justice of it, but whenever I think of it, I feel sorry for him.”
“Why?”
Despite the quietness of the monosyllable, she divined an eager interest back of his question.