She
turned white and red by turns. Had he tired of the sport? Had the
novelty worn off? Was he laughing at her for a silly coquette? The
riding crop came down sharply upon her horse's flank and a very deeply
agitated young woman galloped off toward Bazelhurst Villa, hurrying as
though afraid he might catch sight of her in flight.
A quarter of a mile brought a change in her emotions. British
stubbornness arose to combat an utter rout. After all, why should she
run away from him? With whimsical bravado, she turned off suddenly
into the trail that led to the river, her color deepening with the
consciousness that, after all, she was vaguely hoping she might see
him somewhere before the morning passed. Through the leafy pathway she
rode at a snail's pace, brushing the low-hanging leaves and twigs from
about her head with something akin to petulance. As she neared the
river the neighing of a horse hard by caused her to sit erect with
burning ears. Then she relapsed into a smile, remembering that it
might have come from the game warden's horse. A moment later her
searching eyes caught sight of Shaw's horse tied to a sapling and on
Bazelhurst ground, many hundred feet from his own domain. She drew in
sharply and looked about in considerable trepidation. Off to the right
lay the log that divided the lands, but nowhere along the bank of the
river could she see the trespasser. Carefully she resumed her way,
ever on the lookout, puzzled not a little by the unusual state of
affairs.
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