She bit off a groan by biting her lip.
"You who died to-day--now--now!"
Nearer and nearer. No human creature could pass by a thing like this--it
would not be possible. And Childe Harold, backing and fighting, scented
the other horse and neighed fiercely and high. The rider was slackening
his pace; he was near the lane. He had turned into it and stopped. Now
for her one frantic cry--but before she could gather power to give it
forth, the man who had stopped had flung himself from his saddle and was
inside the garden speaking. A big voice and a clear one, with a ringing
tone of authority.
"What are you doing here? And what is the matter with Miss Vanderpoel's
horse?" it called out.
Now there was danger of the swoop into the darkness--great
danger--though she clutched at the hedge that she might feel its thorns
and hold herself to the earth.
"YOU!" Nigel Anstruthers cried out. "You!" and flung forth a shout of
laughter.
"Where is she?" fiercely. "Lady Anstruthers is terrified. We have been
searching for hours. Only just now I heard on the marsh that she had
been seen to ride this way. Where is she, I say?"
A strong, angry, earthly voice--not part of the melodrama--not part of a
dream, but a voice she knew, and whose sound caused her heart to leap
to her throat, while she trembled from head to foot, and a light, cold
dampness broke forth on her skin.
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