With a little difficulty Syrilla drew her horse to a standstill and looked back to cry over her shoulder,
“I won! I won, Monseigneur!”
MonseigneurThe Duc drew even with her, thinking he had never seen any woman who sat on a horse better or, despite her fragile appearance, had such good sure hands.
They had raced in the Park over the ground where the joust had taken place and where Syrilla had seen him as the Knight in Shining Armour.
He had known as soon as he saw her mounted on one of his finely bred animals with an Arab strain that she was an exceptional horsewoman.
At the same time with the stallion he was riding he could have beaten her in the race with comparative ease.
On an impulse, which he did not understand himself, the Duc had allowed Syrilla to reach their chosen goal fir
