Up over the mountain-peaks she had known edged moments, little heeded in their passage, when life is poised as a crystal pitcher on the head, in peril of a step.

Then she had been dependent on herself.

Now she had the joy of trusting to her husband.
His hard leftward eye had view of her askant, if he cared to see how she bore the trial; and so relentlessly did he take the slopes, that the man inside pushed out an inquiring pate, the two grooms tightened arms across their chests.

Her face was calmly set, wakeful, but unwrinkled: the creature did not count among timid girls--or among civilized.

She had got what she wanted from her madman--mad in his impulses, mad in his reading of honour.