"Big, and bold, and handsome. The sort of 'knock you down' woman who balances weights at music-halls in tights. Giddy and Bertie took me once to a box at the Empire; she reminded me of the strong lady in spangles. A magnificent creature, like a splendid animal." "Oh!" ejaculates Quinton. "Couldn't you find out who she is, Carol; I would love to know? She gave me such an odd look from her great brave eyes, then, to my astonishment, galloped madly away as if I were going to eat her. She was armed, too, so need not have been afraid, though I don't look much like a savage, do I?" "I can't see that we need trouble about her." "She raised my curiosity." "Simply because of her good looks." "She was the strangest woman I ever saw. I should like to know more of her." Quinton jags his horse's mouth angrily, and, calling the dog, rides forward to stop the discussion. "He has no thought for any woman but me," mentally ejaculates Eleanor, as she follows on Braye du Valle. She is perfectly satisfied with her lot as she rides beside him, gazing at his handsome profile. Some sombre-hued birds on the ground fly into the air as they approach. The transformation from dark feathers to brilliant yellow plumage as they spread their wings in flight is pleasing to the eye. "I love the golden oriole," says Eleanor, "they look like a flash of sunlight. The Eastern birds are very beautiful." As she speaks there is a low growl from behind. Simultaneously Eleanor and Carol turn in their saddles, looking sharply at the dog, and then to the thick growth towards which he is stealing, his tail between his legs and his head down. "I believe that dog is cracked," says Eleanor, calling him back sharply. "I always feel as if some evil spirit were near us when he behaves like that." "I told you how it would be if we brought him." "Let us see what he will do." The dog has taken no heed of her call, but crouches nearer the bushes, bristling all over. Then suddenly he makes a dive into their midst, disappearing from view. This is followed by a series of shrill barks--the sound as of a dog fighting for its life--a skirmish--a hideous yell--and then--silence. "Something has killed him!" whispers Eleanor under her breath. "We had better get on," replies Quinton; "it may be some dangerous beast." "What! ride off, and perhaps leave the wretched dog mangled and maimed to crawl away and starve? Carol! what are you thinking of?" She springs to the ground, flings him her reins, and before he realises what she is going to do, rushes into the bushes after her pet. "Eleanor, are you _mad_?" he thunders, already picturing her devoured by some fierce beast. It is a moment of horrible suspense. Then she emerges, her face scratched by the low boughs, bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier, torn and bleeding. [Illustration: Bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier.]