Occasions there were when Penelope was compelled to equivocate
shamefully in order to escape the companionship of the duke, the
count, or others of their ilk. Once, when the guardian of the road
was late at his post, she rode far into the enemy's country, actually
thrilled by the joy of adventure. When he appeared far down the road,
she turned and fled with all the sensations of a culprit. And he
thundered after her with vindictiveness that deserved better results.
Across the line she drew rein and faced him defiantly, her hair blown
awry, her cheeks red, her eyes sparkling.
"No trespass!" she cried, holding up her gloved hand. He stopped
short, for that was one of the terms of truce.
The next day he again was missing, but she was not to be caught by his
stratagem. Instead of venturing into the trap he had prepared for her,
she remained on her side of the line smiling at the thought of him in
hiding far up the road. If any one had suggested to her that she was
developing too great an interest in this stalwart gentleman, she would
have laughed him to scorn. It had not entered her mind to question
herself as to the pleasure she found in being near him. She was
founding her actions on the basis that he was a real man and that the
little comedy of adventure was quite worth while.
At length an impatient line appeared on her fair brow, a resentful
gleam in her eyes. His remissness was an impertinence! It was the last
time she would come--but a sudden thought struck her like a blow.
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