As she swung the horse to the left toward the ford of the river, a puff of warm wind floated the scarf against Carrigan’s face. He could scarcely feel its gossamer web, but a faint fragrance came from it, and his heart beat fast. The moon rolled like a yellow wheel over the tops of the black hills, and its light touched the throat and the turned face of Jacqueline, so that Carrigan could barely guess at her smile. When he spoke to her she did not turn. She stared straight before, crooning a hushed, joyous melody deep in her throat. She would not turn her head, for then the vision with which she rode would have vanished. While she looked straight before her past the tossing head of the horse, it was not Carrigan who sat at her shoulder; it was not his voice which spoke to her; it was not his breath which touched her throat now and again. No! For though the horse had not journeyed far, Jacqueline had ridden a fabulous distance into the regions of romance. The amber beads were now a chain of gold, and where they touched cold against her breast, that was where the jeweled cross lay, the priceless relic before which she said her prayers at dawn and evening. The hair was no longer red. It was yellower, richer than that golden moon. The slight clinking of the bridle-rein, where the little chain chimed against the bit, that was the rattle of the armor of her knight. He had ridden far for her that evening. He had stolen into the castle of her father. He had reached her chamber, where the tapestries made a hushing along the wall like warning whispers. And he had lowered her from the casement on a rope made of twisted clothes. And he had helped her across the moat. Then, with a rusted key, they turned the harsh lock of a secret portal and were free--free--free! Jacqueline tossed up her arms. The air was like a cool caress upon them. Yes, she was free! They topped a hill. Below it ran the river, glimmering silver through the night, and jeweled by the shining of the stars. Suddenly she shook the reins and urged the horse to a frantic gallop down the slope. “What’s the matter?” cried Carrigan. Yes, how could he know that even at that moment her father, with a band of hard-riding liegemen, had thundered into view behind them and that death raced closely on their heels? She drew rein, panting on the edge of the river. Then Carrigan proved himself a knight indeed. They dared not imperil that gown of green, so he sat in the saddle with his legs crossed in front of the horn and lifted her in his arms. Then he gave the horse its way, and the cunning old cattle-pony picked a safe way along a sand-bank. The water rose higher. They slipped, floundering into little hollows, and clambered back into shallower places. Once the water rose so high that Carrigan could have put down his hand and touched it. “Steady!” he said encouragingly to the girl.