His cousin looked delighted, Bruce decidedly uncomfortable, though, of
course, he could not refuse. He was riding Kathleen, an Irish mare, one
of the quietest in the Kerton stable, where none were very steady. The
fences were nothing at first; at last we came to a brook. It was not
broad, but evidently deep, with high, rotten banks. However, as we were
going at a fair hunting pace, all, including Bella Donna and her
mistress, took it in their stride, but pulled up at once, seeing that
Bruce was left behind, with the groom who was following us.
The first time he came at it, it was a clear case of "craning." He was
hauling nervously at the reins, and would not let the mare have it.
Guy regarded him with intense contempt. "By G--d," he muttered, "I
believe the man's afraid!"
Forrester laughed so unrestrainedly that Isabel looked at him
beseechingly, in evident dread of the consequences.
"My dear Miss Raymond," he said, answering her frightened glance, "don't
alarm yourself. Do you think I am a Quixote, to war with windmills?"
No one could look at Bruce's long arms and legs, all working at once,
without owning the aptness of the simile.
For the third time he came down at the brook, and, I really believe,
meant going; but Kathleen, unused to such vacillating measures, had got
sulky, and swerved on the very brink, almost sliding over it.
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