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When you can walk, Brian, you must see the cabin." Heat quivered visibly in the valley. A faint breeze frolicked now and then upon the ridge, fluttering the honeysuckle and the pages of an open book upon the table. "I'm glad it isn't," said Brian in relief. "Somehow I can't imagine Kenny off there in a hot cabin striding up and down and grilling Don. He's so so combustible.
Oh!" she cried, over and over again, striding forward and back across some yards of pasture, trampling lilies and harebells under her heedless feet, turning her flaming face at intervals toward the spot in the smiling landscape that had last held the figure of Philip Haig. The shame of it! She had never never never been treated so outrageously. It was unendurable and she had endured it!
At sight of the new-comer, Murrell, with an oath, released Betty, who, striking her horse with the whip galloped down the road toward the Barony. As she fled past Carrington she bent low in her saddle. "Don't let him follow me!" she gasped, and Carrington, striding forward, caught Murrell's horse by the bit. "Not so fast, you!" he said coolly. The two men glared at each other for a brief instant.
It had the air of a house overflowing with life, every room with its sign of occupation. When he got in, the first sight he saw was Montjoie striding across the doorway of the small dining-room. Montjoie was very much at home, puffing his cigarette at the new comer. "Hallo, St. John!" he cried, then added with a tone of disappointment, "Oh! it's you."
The captain was inwardly satisfied; for had he not succeeded in publicly branding his rival in love as a coward? Dick Swinton went striding home, a prey to the bitterest humiliation. He had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and had disgraced himself in the eyes of his fellows. And the forget-me-not in his pocket! That had had much to do with it, of course.
It was a pity that Geoffrey Thurston was following in his grandfather's footsteps, the sturdy dalefolk said, and several of them shook their heads solemnly as they repeated the observation when one morning the young man came striding down the steep street of a village in the North Country.
He dismounted, for he had to, and tossed his reins to the nearest man with the air of an emperor. And he led the way dawn the cliffside without hesitation, striding like a mountaineer. His men followed him noisily, holding hands to make human chains at the difficult places and shouting a great deal; but not quite naturally now.
Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife's weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over the tub in front of him.
Quickly he made his way along, running like a hare when the street was empty, but always observing caution, and only striding along like a man in haste when there were passers by to note him. He felt sure that Rosamund's quick wits would do much to gain time and give him a start; and, sure enough, he reached the stable yard where Lord Claud's horses were kept without a sign or sound of pursuit.
The palm of his right hand opened and a thin two-edged blade rattled to the floor. Gregory took a step forward and shoved the knife away with his foot. Keeping one eye fixed warily upon Mascola, he shot a glance over his shoulder to determine the author of the interruption. He turned to see a trim little figure in loosely-fitting outing clothes striding across the floor.