The Duke had seen his grandson almost as soon as she, and the passion
went out of his face. He looked suddenly old and tired and troubled.
There was appeal in the gaze he turned on his grandson. He stepped
forward.
"Don't let her make any more trouble between us, Harlan, not till you
understand how she--"
But the girl forestalled him. She had fought her battle alone until he
came. She slid off her horse and ran across the yard, sobbing like a
child. And now Presson saw how young she was. On her horse, defiant
almost to the point of impudence, she had a manner that belied her
years. But when she fled to her champion, she was revealed as only a
little girl with a child's impulsiveness in speech and action. The
young man slipped his foot from a stirrup and held his hand to her. She
sprang to him, standing in the stirrup.
"He called me wicked names, Harlan! I was only trying to help you. I
wanted you to come, for I thought you ought to know! You've come. I knew
you'd come. You won't let him send you away. You'll not let him call me
those names ever again!"
He gently swung her down, alighted and faced his grandfather.
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