Ida, the moment she had got over the top of the hill, had ridden quickly, and, of course, quite fearlessly and safely, and had got Rupert so well in hand, as usual, that when she heard the clatter behind her, and, turning, saw the peril in which Maude had put herself, she was able to pull Rupert up.  It was almost a repetition of what had occurred the other day; but this time Maude Falconer’s peril was infinitely greater; for her horse was half mad and tearing down the steep hill-side, rendered doubly dangerous by the loose stones, and was all too evidently indifferent whether he stood or fell.  And yet another risk lay just below; for William had been digging in that spot for stones to mend the bank, and even if the maddened horse saw the hole, it was more than probable that he would not be able to pull up in time.

Such moments as these form the criterion of true courage.  There was only one way in which Ida could save, or attempt to save, the white-faced woman who was drawing towards her at breakneck speed.  What she would have to attempt to do would be to ride straight for the oncoming horse, swerve almost as she reached it, and keep side by side with it until she could succeed either in turning it away from that horrible hole, or stop it by throwing it.  She did not hesitate for a moment.

It may be said in all truth that at that moment she forgot that the woman whose life she was going to save was Maude Falconer; she did not realise the fact—­or, if she did, she was indifferent to it—­that she was risking her own life to save the woman who had robbed her of Stafford.  There was the life to be saved, and that was enough for Ida.  She slipped her foot almost out of the stirrup, felt Rupert’s mouth firmly but gently, leant forward and whispered a word to him, which it is very likely he understood—­perhaps he saw all the game even before she did—­and, with an encouraging touch of her hand, she let him go.

He sprang forward like an arrow from the bow.  As they drew near the flying horse, Ida shifted her whip to her left hand, so that her right should be free, and, leaning as far in the saddle as she could with safety, she made a snatch at Adonis’s rein at the moment she came alongside him.  She would have caught the rein, she might have stopped the horse or turned it aside—­God alone knows!—­but as her fingers almost grasped it, Maude, steadied in her seat by the nearness of her would-be rescuer, raised her whip and struck Ida across the bosom and across the outstretched hand.  The blow, in its finish, fell on Adonis’s reeking neck.  With a snort he tore away from the other horse and swept onwards, with Maude once again swaying in her saddle.  Ida gazed at her in speechless terror for an instant, then, as if she could look no longer, she flung up her arm across her eyes.