236 THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



move slowly. She walked beside him, holding the bridle ; 

 but Ruy's long stride soon threatened to leave her behind. 

 For very shame, he could not but stay. At a touch Ruy 

 halted. She looked up at him ; he carefully avoided her 

 glance. The horse, growing restless, began to move again; 

 again, for courtesy's sake, he was compelled to check him. 

 Not a word had been spoken while this show was pro- 

 ceeding. 



' Barnard's face grew hot with impatience, or embarrass- 

 ment, or a sense that he was doing wrong in some manner 

 not at the moment apparent. Sideways, she saw his 

 glowing cheek. It only inflamed her heart the more ; the 

 bright colour, like the scarlet tints in a picture, lit up his 

 face. Next he controlled himself, and forced his features 

 and attitude to an impassive indifference. He would sit 

 like a statue till it pleased her to let him go. Ruy pulled 

 hard to get his neck free that he might feed again. 



' She stooped and gathered him some grass and gave it 

 to him. Twice she fed him. Barnard remained silent 

 and impassive. Still not a word between them. The 

 third time she gathered a handful of grass ; as she rose 

 her shoulder brushed his knee. She stood there, and did 

 not move. Her warm shoulder just touched him, no 

 more ; her golden hair was very near. She drew over a 

 tuft of Ruy's mane, and began to deftly plait it. Barnard's 

 face, in defiance of himself, flushed scarlet ; his very ears 

 burned. He stole half a glance sideways ; how lovely her 

 roseate cheek, the threads of her golden hair, against the 

 bay's neck ! Ruy was turning his nostrils round to 

 touch her, and ask for more grass. She swiftly plaited 

 his mane. 



' At that moment another horse neighed over the hill ; 

 they both looked round — no one was in sight. But Ruy 

 answered with a neigh, and in the same instant stepped 

 forward. Barnard pressed his knee ; Ruy began to move 

 faster. Barnard bowed ; his voice was temporarily 

 inarticulate, and he was gone.'* 



* The Dewy Morn. 



