In a bog the greenest spots
are the most dangerous, and Zoe knew it: the matted roots might be afloat
on a fathomless depth of water. Backed by my uncle, she soon taught me to
be as much afraid of those green spots as she was herself. I had learned
to trust her thoroughly.
I took my way to the stable, with a hug and a kiss to Martha as I passed
her in the kitchen, I got the cowboy to saddle Zoe, fearing I might not
persuade one of the big men on such a night, and I was not quite able
myself to tighten the girths properly. She had not been out all day, and
when I mounted, she danced at the prospect of a gallop.
I took with me the little lantern I went about the place with when
there was no moon, and with this alight in my hand, we darted off at a
tight-reined gallop into the wet blowing night. What I was going for I
did not know, beyond being with my uncle. So far was I from any fear,
that, but for my shadowy uneasiness about him, I should have been filled
full of the wild joy of battle with the elements. The first part of the
way, I had to cling to the saddle: not otherwise could I keep my seat
against the wind, which blew so fiercely on me sideways, that it
threatened to blow me out of it.
I had not gone far before the saddle began to turn round with me; I was
slipping to the ground. I pulled up, dismounted, undid the girths with
difficulty, set the saddle straight, then pulled at every strap with all
my might.
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