Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

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“Not home just at present, Satyr,” he said to the horse; “here, turn your head to the left. So! ho! old boy, easy, easy.”

A moment later horse and rider were flying almost on the wings of the wind in the direction of the Grange.

There was a long rambling avenue under dark lime trees up to the old house. Rowton did not wait to open the gates. Setting spurs to his horse the animal quickly leapt these obstacles, and then at full speed galloped up the avenue. When the pair approached the house Rowton pulled up abruptly, and springing from his steed led him softly over the grass. A great cedar tree stood in the middle of the desolate lawn. Taking a leather strap from his pocket, Rowton tied his horse to a branch of this tree, and then stepping quickly up to one of the windows he began to whistle, in gay clear notes, the well-known strains of “Garry Owen.” His whistle rang out joyfully; he had just completed the melody and was going to begin it a second time, when a noise at a little distance caused him to turn his head; a faint light proceeded from an open door, and a girl’s slender figure was seen standing on the steps.