But Dolly swerved from the road and dashed down a grassy slope yellowed with innumerable mariposa lilies.  An ancient fence at the bottom was no obstacle.  She burst through as though it were filmy spider-web and disappeared in the underbrush.  Lute followed unhesitatingly, putting Ban through the gap in the fence and plunging on into the thicket.  She lay along his neck, closely, to escape the ripping and tearing of the trees and vines.  She felt the horse drop down through leafy branches and into the cool gravel of a stream’s bottom.  From ahead came a splashing of water, and she caught a glimpse of Dolly, dashing up the small bank and into a clump of scrub-oaks, against the trunks of which she was trying to scrape off her rider.

Lute almost caught up amongst the trees, but was hopelessly outdistanced on the fallow field adjoining, across which the mare tore with a fine disregard for heavy ground and gopher-holes.  When she turned at a sharp angle into the thicket-land beyond, Lute took the long diagonal, skirted the ticket, and reined in Ban at the other side.  She had arrived first.  From within the thicket she could hear a tremendous crashing of brush and branches.  Then the mare burst through and into the open, falling to her knees, exhausted, on the soft earth.  She arose and staggered forward, then came limply to a halt.  She was in lather-sweat of fear, and stood trembling pitiably.

Chris was still on her back.  His shirt was in ribbons.  The backs of his hands were bruised and lacerated, while his face was streaming blood from a gash near the temple.  Lute had controlled herself well, but now she was aware of a quick nausea and a trembling of weakness.

“Chris!” she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper.  Then she sighed, “Thank God.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” he cried to her, putting into his voice all the heartiness he could command, which was not much, for he had himself been under no mean nervous strain.

He showed the reaction he was undergoing, when he swung down out of the saddle.  He began with a brave muscular display as he lifted his leg over, but ended, on his feet, leaning against the limp Dolly for support.  Lute flashed out of her saddle, and her arms were about him in an embrace of thankfulness.

“I know where there is a spring,” she said, a moment later.

They left the horses standing untethered, and she led her lover into the cool recesses of the thicket to where crystal water bubbled from out the base of the mountain.

“What was that you said about Dolly’s never cutting up?” he asked, when the blood had been stanched and his nerves and pulse-beats were normal again.

“I am stunned,” Lute answered.  “I cannot understand it.  She never did anything like it in all her life.  And all animals like you so—­it’s not because of that.  Why, she is a child’s horse.  I was only a little girl when I first rode her, and to this day—­”