The next day, while riding along a secluded bridle path some miles from
Dornlitz, I came upon a woman leading a badly-limping horse. She was
alone,--no groom in sight,--and drawing rein I dismounted and asked if
I could be of service. Then I saw her face, and stepped back in
surprise. Her pictures were too plentiful in the capital for me to
make mistake. It was the Princess Dehra.
I bowed low. "Your Royal Highness's pardon," I said. "I did not mean
to presume."
She measured me in a glance. "Indeed, you are most opportune," she
said, with a frank smile. "I have lost the groom,--his horse was too
slow,--and I've been punished by Lotta picking a stone I cannot remove."
CONCERNING ANCESTORS 25
"By your leave," I said, and lifted the mare's hoof. Pressing back the
frog I drew out the lump of sharp gravel.
"It looks so easy," she said.
"It was paining her exceedingly, but she is all right now."
"Then I may mount?"
I bowed.
"Without hurting Lotta?" she asked.
I turned the mare about and dropped my hand into position. For a
moment she hesitated. Then there was the swish of a riding skirt, the
glint of a patent-leather boot, an arched foot in my palm, and without
an ounce of lift from me she was in the saddle.
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