While she was in the act of finding a figure of speech to meet the case, her own horse realized its opportunity. Nor was it slow to turn it to account. Cytherea made a thoroughly competent attempt to pitch her rider into the river. She just failed, it is true, but that was more because her luck was out than for any lack of honest intention. Cytherea’s bold rider was no believer in half measures. She soon had her in hand, duly admonished her with shrewd jabs of her long spurs and came a second time within an ace of being flung into the river. Not brooking cold steel, Cytherea fought for her head like a tigress. She got her forefeet onto the low rail of the bridge. There was a desperate moment of uncertainty, in which the issue hung in the balance, and then Cytherea had to bring her forefeet down again. “The fault is yours, John Markham,” said Cytherea’s rider. “You are, I say, a clumsy fellow. You sit your horse like a--” Again she paused to find a simile worthy of the occasion. “You sit your horse like a sack of peas.” John did not reply, but hung his diminished head. “Here, take the merlin,” said his mistress, and by now there was a steady light in her eyes. “And give me that whip of yours.” But the falconer, fully conscious of his daring, summoned all his courage. “Wait till we are across the bridge, I pray you, mistress.” “Give me your whip, sirrah. If this rude beast gets me into the river I’ll warrant she comes in herself.” “No, mistress,” said the falconer. “I dare not. The rail is too low and the bridge is too narrow.” “Hand it to me at once, I say!” The face of Cytherea’s wilful rider was full of menace. Never before had the falconer dared to oppose her will, but it was almost certain death if now he obeyed it. “Do you not hear me, sirrah?” “You shall have it, mistress, as soon as we are across the bridge.” There was nothing for it but to wait until they had gained the opposite bank. Once among the crocuses, the lady reined in the still mutinous Cytherea with no light hand. She then turned her unruly steed to meet that of the falconer. “Now, sirrah!” The gauntleted hand was held out grimly. The eyes were like stars in their dark luster; and in the center of each cheek burned a glowing crimson. John Markham lifted the merlin from the fist of his mistress. Then he gave her the whip. There was not a drop of blood in his cheeks. His fixed, unfearing gaze had not a shade of defiance; but it was as if the upturned face almost invited that which awaited it. “You fool!” The whip descended sharply, but without haste, on the lithe and beautiful flanks of the astonished Cytherea. One, two, three. It was a hazardous proceeding. For more than one long minute the issue lay in doubt. But skill and high courage gained the day. The dignity of a daughter of men was vindicated at the expense of the dignity of the daughter of goddesses. “I thank you, John Markham.” She returned the whip to the falconer with almost an air of kindness.