As she waited at the gate she had known a moment of contrition and doubt as to what she had done.

It was not fair to her brother thus to give away his secret to the enemy; but as the horse flew down the rough road her blood leaped with the sense of adventure, and her pulse sang with the joy of flight.

Her thoughts were free, wild things; and she exulted in the great starry vault and the cool heights over which she rode.

Who was John Armitage?
She did not know or care, now that she had performed for him her last service.

Quite likely he would fade away on the morrow like a mountain shadow before the sun; and the song in her heart to-night was not love or anything akin to it, but only the joy of living.
Where the road grew difficult as it dipped sharply down into the valley she suffered him perforce to ride beside her.
"You ride wonderfully," he said.
"The horse is a joy.