us was the _fiasco_ that he would have laughed had he not
been sorry for the beast; for to see any rampant thing so suddenly
stricken with fear, when there was not the least danger nor any intent
of harm, was pitiful to see. He wished to assure the buckskin that he
was only a boy, a frail boy at that, and not what the animal had
apparently taken him to be,--a spawn of Darkness and Terror. He followed
up the trembling beast, trying to reassure him and to get near and pet
him; but the creature fled wildly at every advance, and when not pursued
stood with head aloft, ears cocked, and nostrils vibrant, quivering in
fear.

Seeing the uselessness of further pacific effort, the boy sprang over
the fence, went back to the main highway, and by the unseen Hand was led
into the short cut past Mr. Elderby's house, where the greatest terror
of his life--human excepted--had months ago driven him to use the long
way round. He did not know, nor for a moment consider, why he chose the
short cut tonight. He turned into it, walking free and strong.

Girls had meant nothing in the boy's life. That was because they did not
seem members of his species, but something fragile, mysterious, and
ranking somewhere between flowers and angels. Thus his feeling for them
was composed of a little awe, more reverence, and a sense of great
remoteness. Never had he observed them thoughtfully without reflecting
that they were, in a general way, much like his mother, or at least of
her species; therefore they must be sweet and dainty and gentle and
kind. His only large swellings of the heart had come from his thinking
about them, particularly Grace Elderby, now twelve years old. Nothing
could have been so grand, for instance, as an opportunity to rescue her
single-handed, from wild savages that had her tied to a tree and were
piling fagots about her; then to dance in fiendish glee about her as the
flames rose. He would dash up on a splendid charger, his sword flashing
in the sun; savage heads would roll in the dust, or fall open, cleaved
in twain; there would be wild yells of fright and a wilder flight for
life; he would leap from his horse, speak reassuring words while he
severed her bonds, mount with her in his arms, and fly away, away, away.

Twice had Grace seen his shame. She had seen him pale, and run when her
father's big, noisy dog had made a flamboyant show of rage, and she had
seen him stand mute and white when Andy Carmichael, older and larger a