“Well, we won’t be the first to cross,” I said, to satisfy her.  “We’ll see how the others get on, and no harm shall come to Carette, I promise you.”

Gray Robin was dozing again, but I woke him up with a poke, and climbed up on to his broad back with as little damage to his rose-armour as I could manage, and Aunt Jeanne carried out a chair, so that Carette could get up behind me without disarranging herself.

And a happy man was I when the soft arms clasped me firmly round the waist, although I knew well enough that it was the correct thing for them to do, and that there was nothing more in it than a strong desire on the rear rider’s part not to fall off.  But for that troublesome young Torode, and all that was implied in the fact that Carette’s arms would be round him on the homeward journey, I would have been the happiest man in Sercq that day.  As it was, it was in my mind to make the most of my half of it.

Young Torode sprang on Black Boy with a leap that put our more cautious methods very much, into the shade, and also stirred up all Black Boy’s never-too-well-concealed evil temper.  A horse of spirit ever objects to the double burden of man and man’s master, and, through thigh and heel and hand, he can tell in the most wonderful fashion if the devil’s aboard as well.

We left them settling their little differences and jogged away down the lane, and the last we saw of Aunt Jeanne she was leaning over the gate, looking hopefully at the fight before her.  But presently we heard the quick beat of hoofs behind, and they went past us with a rush—­Black Boy’s chin drawn tight to his chest, which was splashed with white foam flecks, his neck like a bow, and the wicked white of his port eye glaring back at us like a danger signal.

“Monsieur Torode has got his hands full, I think,” I said.

“And Monsieur Black Boy carries more than he likes.”

“I’m glad you’re not on board there, Carette.”

“I think I am too—­just now,” she laughed quietly.

We took the north road at La Vauroque, where we came on George Hamon, gazing gloomily after Black Boy and his rider, who were flying along the road to Colinette, and judging from his face there was a curse on his lips as he turned to us, which was very unusual with him.  He brightened, however, when he saw us.

“B’en!  That’s all right,” he said very heartily.  “Gray Robin is a proud horse this day, ma’m’zelle, with the prettiest maid in the Island on his back—­and the best man,” he added meaningly.  “I’m just hoping that crazy Frenchman will bring my Black Boy back all safe and sound.  He’s got more than a bit of the devil in him at times—­the horse, I mean.  The other, too, maybe.  And he’s more used to harness than the saddle.  However—­luck to you!”

He waved his hand, and we jogged on past the Cemetery, and so by La Rondellerie and La Moinerie, where the holy Maglorius once lived—­as you may see by the ruins of his house and the cells of his disciples—­to Belfontaine, where my mother came out with full eyes to give us greeting.