Her morning's work on the moors had made her look
like young Nature's self, her cheek was burnt rich-brown and crimson,
her disordered hair twined in big rough rings about her forehead, her
movements were as light, alert, and perfect as if she had been a deer
or any wild thing of the woods or fields. There was that about her that
made Roxholm feel that she must exhale in breath and hair and garments
the scent of gorse and heather and fern and summer rains.
As one man gazed at her so did the others, though they were his elders
and saw her often, while he was but twenty-eight and had beheld her but
once before.
Each man of the party took from his pouch a small but well-filled
packet of food and a flask, and fell to upon their contents
voraciously, talking as they worked their jaws and joking with Mistress
Clo. She also brought forth her own package, which held bread and meat,
and a big russet apple, upon she set with a fine appetite. 'Twas good
even to see her eat, she did it with such healthy pleasure, as a young
horse might have taken his oats or a young setter his supper after a
day in the cover.
"_Thou_'rt not tired, Clo!" cries Eldershawe, laughing, as she fell
upon her russet apple, biting into it crisply, and plainly with the
pleasure of a hungry child.
"Not I, good Lord!" she answered. "Could shoot over as many miles
again."
"When thou'rt fifty years old, wilt not be so limber and have such
muscles," said Sir Jeoffry.
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