Further along clustered the pack, the hounds padding restlessly here and there, but kept within bounds by the occasional crack of a long-lashed crop or a gruff command from one of the whips.
Nan was always conscious of a curious intermingling of feeling when, as now, she watched Roger ride away at the head of his hounds.

The day she had almost lost her life at the kennels recurred to her mind inevitably--those moments of swift and terrible danger when it seemed as though nothing could save her.

And with that memory came another--the memory of Roger flinging himself forward to the rescue, forcing back with bare hands the great hound which had attacked her.

A quick thrill--the thrill of primitive woman--ran through her at the recollection.

No woman can remain unmoved by physical courage--more especially if it is her own imperative need which has called it forth.
That was the side of Roger which she liked best to dwell upon.