As she came nearer, admiration romped in ahead of amazement, for the
girl was a young one--she looked like the average school-girl--and had
one of the most beautiful faces Stafford had ever seen. She was dark,
but the cheek that was swept by the long lashes was colourless with
that exquisite and healthy pallor which one sees in the women of
Northern Spain. Her hair was black but soft and silky, and the wind
blew it in soft tendrils, now across her brow and now in dazzling
strands about the soft felt hat which sat in graceful negligence upon
the small and stately head. She wore a habit stained by use and
weather, and so short that it was little better than a skirt, and left
her almost as absolute a freedom as that enjoyed by the opposite sex.
Her hands were covered by well-worn gauntlets, and she held a stout and
workman-like crop with a long huntsman's thong.
A poet would instantly have thought that it was a vision of the Spirit
of the Mountains; Stafford only thought it was the most lovely piece of
girlhood he had ever looked at. She did not see him for a moment, all
her attention being engrossed by the sheep which were now wandering up
the valley; then suddenly, as if she felt his presence rather than saw
it, her dark eyes flashed round upon him and she pulled up the big
horse on its haunches with a suddenness which ought to have sent her
from the saddle like a stone from a catapult; but she sat back as firm
as a rock and gazed at him steadily, with a calmness which fascinated
Stafford and kept him staring back at her as if he were the veriest
plough-boy.
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