Hey,
comrades!" he called over his shoulder. "Yonder--to the left--the old
land-mark! Do you see?" His glance, as it came back, took in his captive. "The
first bar of your cage, my hawk. Yonder is the first boundary of Ivarsdale."
Every man started up in his saddle, and the cheers they had held back upon
leaving camp burst forth now with added zest. Peering over her captor's
shoulder, Randalin looked forward anxiously.
Below the plain in whose centre the old elm held up its blasted top to be
silvered by the sun, the land dipped abruptly toward the river, to rise beyond
in a long low hill. Rolling green meadows lay at its foot, and warm brown
fields dotted with thatched farm-houses; and its sides were checkered with
patches of woodland and stretches of golden barley. Just below the crest, the
tower of the Lords of Ivarsdale reared its gray walls above the surrounding
greenery. Far away, a speck through the dark foliage, the great London road
gleamed white; but wooded hills made a sheltering hedge between, and all
around spread the great beech forest that fostered the markmen's herds. It was
a kingdom to itself, with the light slanting warmly upon its fertile slopes
and the forest standing like a strong army at its back.
Because it was so peacefully lovely, and because of her utter weariness, tears
welled up under the girl's heavy lids as she looked.
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