She liked the smell of the long, dim stable, the sound of the horses moving in their stalls, the regular crunching as they ate their hay. Years ago, she had been in this place with John and Rupert and she had forgotten nothing. There were the corn-bins under the windows and the pieces of old harness still hanging on big nails; above, there was the loft that looked as vast as ever in the shadowy gloom, and again it invited her ascent by the iron steps between the stalls. From the harness-room Halkett fetched a saddle, and as he put it on the mare's back, he said, "Come and say how d'you do to her." "It's Daisy. She'll go fast. Isn't she beautiful! She's rubbing her nose on me. I wish I could ride her." "She might let you--for half a minute. Charlie's the boy for you. Come and see what's in the harness-room." "Not now. There isn't time." "Wait for me then." There was pleading in his voice. "Wait in the wood. I've something to show you. Will you do that for me?" He was standing close to her, and she did not look up. "I ought to go back, but I don't want to. I don't like ill people. They sicken me." "Don't go, then." Now she looked at him in search of the assurance she wanted. "I needn't, need I? Helen can manage, can't she?" He forgot to answer because she was like a flower suddenly brought to life in Daisy's stall, a flower for grace and beauty, but a woman for something that made him deaf to what she said. "She can manage, can't she?" "Of course." He snatched an armful of hay from a rack and led her to the larch trees and there he scraped together the fallen needles and laid the hay on them to make a bed for her. "Rest there. Go to sleep and I'll be back before you wake." She lay curled on her side until all sounds of him had passed and then she rolled on to her back and drew up her knees. It was dark and warm in the little wood; the straight trunks of the larches were as menacing as spears and the sky looked like a great banner tattered by their points. Though she lay still, she seemed to be marching with a host, and the light wind in the trees was the music of its going, the riven banner was a trophy carried proudly and, at a little distance, the rushing of the brook was the sound of feet following behind. For a long time she went with that triumphant army, but at length there came other sounds that forced themselves on her hearing and changed her from a gallant soldier to a girl half frightened in a wood.