Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring wings.

Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang.
There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen.

Yet all these varied sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the complete remoteness from human dwelling-place.
Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade.
The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon.
He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an unseen way.
Mora rode as in a dream.

"I ride to my husband," she cried to the forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an irrepressible burst of praise: "_Jesu dulsis memoria_!" Then, when she fell silent: "_Dulsis_! _Dulsis_!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy clerestories overhead.

And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and cantered faster.
Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.
Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.
Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and slipped again.
With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing through the undergrowth.
Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the tree trunks.
Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart was now so blissfully at rest.
Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.
"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose to ride alone." With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go forward.
At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.
With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a swift canter.
Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.
Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home.
* * * * * * It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted in the courtyard.
She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck.