Then I ran
beside the pony--bridle in one hand, machine in the other--till Hilda
had sprung with a light bound into the stirrup. At that, a little leap,
and I mounted the bicycle. It was all done nimbly, in less time than the
telling takes, for we are both of us naturally quick in our
movements. Hilda rode like a man, astride--her short, bicycling skirt,
unobtrusively divided in front and at the back, made this easily
possible. Looking behind me with a hasty glance, I could see that
the savages, taken aback, had reined in to deliberate at our unwonted
evolution. I feel sure that the novelty of the iron horse, with a
woman riding it, played not a little on their superstitious fears; they
suspected, no doubt, this was some ingenious new engine of war
devised against them by the unaccountable white man; it might go off
unexpectedly in their faces at any moment. Most of them, I observed, as
they halted, carried on their backs black ox-hide shields, interlaced
with white thongs; they were armed with two or three assegais apiece and
a knobkerry.
Instead of losing time by the change, as it turned out, we had actually
gained it. Hilda was able to put on my sorrel to her full pace, which
I had not dared to do, for fear of outrunning my companion; the wise
little beast, for her part, seemed to rise to the occasion, and to
understand that we were pursued; for she stepped out bravely.
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