The girl shot this way and that, like a shuttle in a loom, her slender
body gracefully bent, her head thrown back defiantly. Her plait had
come loose, and the hair streamed out behind her like a tawny mane. A
glimpse of a red stocking showed now and again beneath her dress.

For Olof, too, it had ceased to be a game. She was no longer one of a
couple he had to part, but a creature fie must tame--a young wild foal
with sparkling eyes and golden mane.

They reached the edge of the course; only a few feet now between them.

At last! thought Olof, holding himself in readiness for her next turn
up the slope.

But again she turned off downward. And as she wheeled about, Olof
again was aware of something he had not marked before--the curve of
her hips, her lithe, supple waist, and the splendid poise of her head.
He was so close now that her hair touched his face--touched it, or
was it only the air as it flew past his cheek? And from her eyes shot
beams of light, challenging, beckoning, urging him on.

Gazelle! The word flashed into his mind--a picture from some book he
had once read. The eyes, the lightfoot swiftness--yes, a gazelle. He
shouted the word aloud, victoriously, as he raced after her like one
possessed.

She sprang aside, and darted up a little hill just beyond the course.

"Look, look!" cried the rest. It was like running down a hare.