She really had the heroical aspect in a grandiose-grotesque, fitted to some lines of Ariosto.

Her head wore a close hood, disclosing a fringe of grey locks, owlish to see about features hooked for action.
'Ah, you! there you are: good--I'll join you in three minutes,' she sang out to him, and cantered to the ridge.
Hardly beyond the stated number she was beside him again, ranging her steed for the victim log to dance a gyration on its branches across the lane and enter a field among the fallen compeers.

One of her men had run behind her.

She slid from her saddle and tossed him the reins, catching up her skirts.
'That means war, as much as they'll have it in England,' she said, seeing his glance at the logs.

'My husband's wise enough to leave it to me, so I save him trouble with neighbours.