She turned to him with a low laugh.

“Do you think I don’t know?” she said, between her teeth.  “I have know all along!  I read the letter you wrote to her—­I got it—­stole it, if you like—­from Pottinger.  I have known all along—­do you not think I have been very patient, very discreet?  Even now I bear no malice.  I can forget the past, forget and forgive.  Why should I not, seeing that I am assured of your love and good faith?  You will see how completely I forget, how little importance I attach to your fancy for the girl; a fancy which I am sure you have quite outgrown.  Oh, I can trust you!  We will join Miss Heron by all means.”

His face was dark and heavy.

“Do not, Maude, until you’ve heard all,” he began, but with a scornful laugh that yet had something doubting and desperate in it, she sent Adonis on.  He sprang forward nervously and shivering under a stroke from her whip, and swiftly lessened the distance between him and Rupert, who heard his approach before Ida did, and who neighed a welcome.  Ida turned and saw who was following her, saw Stafford just behind, and gathering her reins together she rode Rupert quickly to the top of the hill.

“Miss Heron!” cried Maude, in a voice of covert insolence, but almost open triumph.  “Miss Heron, stop, please!”

Ida did stop for a moment, then, feeling that it was impossible for her to meet them, that day, at any rate, she let Rupert go again.  By this time, Stafford had almost gained Maude’s side.  His face was dark with anger, his teeth clenched tightly.  He knew that Maude intended to flaunt her possession of him before Ida.  In a low but perfectly distinct voice, he said: 

“Stop, Maude!  Do not follow her.”  She looked over her shoulder at him, her face flushed, her eyes flashing.

“Why not?” she demanded, scornfully.  “Is she afraid, or is it you who are afraid?  Both, perhaps?  We shall see!”

Before he could catch her rein she had struck Adonis twice with the sharp, cutting whip, and with a shake of his head and a snort of rage and resentment, he stood on his haunches for a moment, then leapt forward and began to race down the hill.  Stafford saw that the horse had bolted, either from fear or anger; he knew that it would only increase Maude’s peril if he galloped in pursuit behind her; he, therefore, checked his horse and made, in a slanting line, for a point towards which he judged Adonis would go.  Maude was swaying in her saddle, in which she could only keep herself by clutching at the pommel; it seemed every moment as if she must fall, as if the horse itself must fall and throw her like a stone down the steep hill.