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"He noticed you," said Gholson; "he looked back at you and your bay. Wouldn't you like to turn back and see his horse?"

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Why, what does all this mean?" asked Miss Harper amid her nieces' cries.

The ladies smiled; I glowered. "Take those horses by their heads and turn them to me!"

"Oh, sir," cried Estelle, whose eyes, brows, lashes and hair were all of the same luminous red-brown, and in whose cheeks the rose seemed always to burn through the olive, "how can you and your people seek to kill such men as that?"

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