was afraid. My fancy always saw him senseless at the foot of a tree while
his horse calmly cropped the short grass at the sides of the path, or
with his precious hand twisted and maimed! And I was in agony till he
reined in. I never dared to speak to him of this fear, nor even hint to
him that the joy was worth less than the peril. He would have been angry
in his heart, and something in him stronger than himself would have
forced him to increase the risks. I knew him! ... Ah! but when we went
gently, life seemed to be ideal for me, impossibly perfect! It seemed to
contain all that I could ever have demanded of it.

I looked at him sideways, so noble and sane and self-controlled. And the
days in Paris had receded, far and dim and phantom-like. Was it
conceivable that they had once been real, and that we had lived through
them? And was this Diaz, the world-renowned darling of capitals, riding
by me, a woman whom he had met by fantastic chance? Had he really hidden
himself in my arms from the cruel stare of the world and the insufferable
curiosity of admirers who, instead of admiring, had begun to pity? Had I
in truth saved him? Was it I who would restore him to his glory? Oh, the
astounding romance that my life had been! And he was with me! He shared
my life, and I his! I wondered what would happen when he returned to his
bright kingdom. I was selfish enough to wish that he might never return
to his kingdom, and that we might ride and ride for ever in the forest.

And then we came to a circular clearing, with an iron cross in the
middle, where roads met, a place such as occurs magically in some ballade
of Chopin's. And here we drew rein on the leaf-strewn grass, breathing
quickly, with reddened cheeks, and the horses nosed each other, with long
stretchings of the neck and rattling of bits.

'So you've been writing again?' said Diaz, smiling quizzically.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I've been writing a long time, but I haven't let
_you_ know anything about it; and just to-day I've finished it.'

'What is it--another novel?'

'No; a little drama in verse.'

'Going to publish it?'

'Why, naturally.'

Diaz was aware that I enjoyed fame in England and America. He was
probably aware that my books had brought me a considerable amount of
money. He had read some of my works, and found them excellent--indeed, he
was quite proud of my talent. But he did not, he could not, take
altogether seriously either my talent or my fame. I kne