ad not allowed a man upon his back, and had had no
exercise beyond his voluntary scamperings about the paddock from which
he had been brought, dancing with excitement and indignation. All the
stablemen had been required to get his bridle and saddle on; he now
wheeled round and round in the large space left for him, while Claud
Dalzell, in his London riding clothes, and with his air of a reigning
prince, warily turned with him. Guthrie Carey, in the waiting
pony-carriage, had but one interest in the performance--his hopeful
anticipation of a fatal, or at least a ridiculous, result.

But there was no fear of that, and evidently Deb knew it. Sitting her
own dancing chestnut, how her beautiful eyes glowed! She gloried in the
ring of breathless witnesses to the prowess of her knight. Many a time
did she scoff and scowl at the dandyisms which she deemed effeminate;
this was one of the moments which showed the man as she desired him.
Through those fine fingers, with the polished filbert nails, the
shortened reins were drawn and held as by clamps of steel; so was the
wild-eyed head by the lock of mane in the same hand. When no one was
looking--although every eye believed itself fixed upon him--his left
foot found its stirrup, his right gave a hop, and like lightning he had
sprung up and round, without touching the horse until fairly down in
the saddle; so that the animal was robbed of his best chance of getting
the rider off, which is at the moment before he is quite on. No other
chance was offered to the baffled one, although he kicked like a demon
for nearly ten minutes.

"I wish," Guthrie Carey ground through his strong teeth, "that the
cranky beast would break his neck." It was not the beast's neck he
meant.

But Deb called: "Bravo! Well done, indeed!" and when the battle was
over called the victor to her with her lovely face of pride and joy.
Right willingly he went, and they sailed away together like the wind,
and were lost to view. Yes, this was Dalzell's hour. She knew nothing
of the brave deeds of sailor-men--common and constant as eating and
drinking, and performed to no audience and for no reward.

Alice Urquhart and Rose Pennycuick, also on horseback, followed the
flying pair; then a buggy containing Jim and schoolgirl Francie (her
governess gone home for holidays today), and a load of ironwork for a
blacksmith on the route; last of all, Mary and the sailor, for all the
world like the old father and mother of th