limbering-up of another felled tree. She headed it as before. The log
dragged bounding and twirling, rattling its chains; the crowd along the
ridge, forbidden to cheer, watching it with intense repression of the
roar. We have not often in England sight of a great lady challengeing an
unpopular man to battle and smacking him in the face like this to provoke
him. Weyburn was driven on a half-circle of the lane to the gate, where
he jumped out to greet Lady Charlotte trotting back for another smack in
the face of her enemy,--a third rounding of her Troy with the vanquished
dead at her heels, as Weyburn let a flimsy suggestion beguile his fancy,
until the Homeric was overwhelming even to a playful mind, and he put
her in a mediaeval frame. She really had the heroical aspect in a
grandiose-grotesque, fitted to some lines of Ariosto. Her head wore
a close hood, disclosing a fringe of grey locks, owlish to see about
features hooked for action.

'Ah, you! there you are: good--I'll join you in three minutes,' she sang
out to him, and cantered to the ridge.

Hardly beyond the stated number she was beside him again, ranging her
steed for the victim log to dance a gyration on its branches across the
lane and enter a field among the fallen compeers. One of her men had run
behind her. She slid from her saddle and tossed him the reins, catching
up her skirts.

'That means war, as much as they'll have it in England,' she said, seeing
his glance at the logs. 'My husband's wise enough to leave it to me, so
I save him trouble with neighbours. An ass of a Mr. Gilbert Addicote
dares us to make good our claim on our property, our timber, because half
a score of fir-tree roots go stretching on to his ground.'