It is your horse; you are on horseback.

Is it the Moor?
Have you ridden the dear old Moor up here to see me?
Please bring his nose near so that I can stroke it." And her fingers came through the flowers again, feeling the empty air.
"I wonder if he knows my hand," she said.

"Oh, Marcos! is there no one to take me away from here?
I hate the place; and yet I am afraid.

I am afraid of something, Marcos, and I do not know what it is.

It was all right when papa was alive.