sants on the road going into town, and townspeople going
out to the country.... And children who insulted one another shrilly....
But the white horse plodded on. On a stretch of level road he passed a
pair talking, noting casually that the woman was a lady from her
carriage, and from his threatening cringe that the man was a cad.
Italian riff-raff of some kind....

"But you are mistaken," the woman was saying. "You are making an error."

The man's reply was low, inaudible.

"But I assure you, you are mistaken."

The white horse plodded on.

"Please, please"--the woman's voice followed Shane, and there was
embarrassed fear in it--"please let me pass! You are mistaken."

And then again: "I swear to you ... please ... please!"

The white horse was surprised at a firm pull on his mouth, a crack of
the whip, and a turn.... He broke in a lolloping canter.... Shane jumped
down....

"Madame, is this man annoying you?"

"_Sirvase, Signor_--"

But one look at the woman's face was sufficient. Shane turned on the
fawning Sicilian with a snarl.

"Get to hell out of here, quick!" The man shuffled off, walked quickly,
ran, disappeared....

The great dark eyes had agony in them. Her mouth quivered. Shane knew
her knees were shaking as she stood.

"Better get in here. I'll drive you home." He helped her into the trap.
"I ought to have held that fellow," he grumbled. "Marseilles? No! Oh,
Les Bains! We'll be there in a minute. You're all right now, Madame."

"He mistook me--for--somebody else--" She had a voice deep and sweet as
a bell, but there was a tremor in it now--a marked accent of fear,
past, but not recovered from.

He was aware of a great vibrant womanhood beside him, as some people are
aware of spirits in a room, or a mother is aware of a child. He was
aware, though he hardly saw them, though he didn't know he saw them, of
the proud Greek beauty of her face, so decisively, so finely chiseled,
so that it seemed to soar forward, as a bird soars into the wind; of the
firm, dark ellipsis of the eyebrows; of the mouth that quivered, and yet
in repose would be something for a master of line and color to draw; the
little hands that plucked nervously at the dark silk gown, unquiet as
butterflies. Her eyes, he knew, were wide with fear, great black pupils,
deep, immensely deep. And he was aware, too, of something within her
that vibrated, as a stay aboard ship vibrates in a gusty, angry wind, or
as an ill-plucked harp