She was a healthy, glowing wench, half confident, half coquette, like a playful forest thing in springtime, when all things mate.
And her sister, Jessica, was like her, only slimmer, who came across the starlit grass rubbing both eyes with her little fists, like a child roused from sleep,--a shy, smiling, red-lipped thing, who gave me her hand and yawned.
And presently went to where my mare stood to pet her and pull the new, wet grass and feed her tid-bits.
I did not feel awkward, yet knew not how to conduct or what might be expected of me at this star-dim rendezvous with a sleepy, woodland beauty.
But she seemed in nowise disconcerted after a word or two; drew my arm about her; put up her red mouth to be kissed, and then begged to be lifted to my saddle.
Here she sat astride and laughed down at me through her tangled hair. And:
"I have a mind to gallop to Fish House," said she, "only that it might prove a lonely jaunt."
I waited till the blood cooled in my veins; and by that time she had forgotten what she had been about--like any other forest bird.
"You have a fine mare, Mr. Drogue," said she, gently caressing Kaya with her naked heels. "No rider better mounted passes Pigeon-Wood."
"Sir John's company between Fish House and the Hall."
"Yes, there are horsemen who ride swiftly at night. We hear them."
"Yes." She leaned down from the saddle and rested both hands on my shoulders:
"Have you no better way to please than in catechizing me, John Drogue?" she laughed. "Do you know what lips were fashioned for except words?"
I kissed her, and, still resting her hands on my shoulders, she looked down into my eyes.
"Are you of Sir John's people?" she asked.
"Of them, perhaps, but not now with them, Jessica."
"Because we design to live as free as God made us, and not as king-fashioned slaves."
"Oh, la!" quoth she, opening her eyes wide, "you use very mighty words to me, Mr. Drogue. There are young men in red coats and gilt lace on their hats who would call you rebel."
"No," she whispered, putting both arms around my neck. "You are a pretty boy and no Yankee! I do not wish you to be a Boston rebel."
At which I laughed and lifted the saucy wench from my saddle, and stood so in the starlight, her arms still around my neck.