She managed her horse well, and speedily left the village behind, and was flying along a broad, well-beaten country road, interspersed at remote intervals with quaint French farm-houses.
All at once, Regina slipped--there was a sheet of ice across the road--struggled to regain her footing, fell, and would have thrown her rider had not a man, walking leisurely along, sprung forward and caught her in his arms.
Rose was unhurt, and extricating herself from the stranger's coat-sleeves, rose also.

The hero of the moment made an attempt to follow her example, uttered a groan, made a wry face, and came to a halt.
"Are you hurt ?" Rose asked.
"I have twisted an ankle on that confounded ice--sprained it, I am afraid, in the struggle with the horse.

If I can walk--but no, my locomotive powers, I find, are at a standstill for the present.

Now, then, Mademoiselle, what are we to do ?" He seated himself with great deliberation on a fallen tree and looked up at her coolly, as he asked the question.
Rose looked down into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen, albeit pallid just now with sharp pain.
"I am so sorry," she said, in real concern.

"You cannot walk, and you must not stay here.