The dog moved restlessly and whined, nestling closer to the master he loved. Corrie dropped a hand to the animal's neck.
"This good old chap and I will go to bed, presently. We've got to win, to-morrow; it's the last time. Gerard, did you ever read a poem Flavia and I used to like, I wonder? About a man having the strength of ten, because his heart was clean? Do you believe it—I mean, that a man can stand more if he knows he is right inside than if, if he could not think that?"
"Corrie, yes, I do believe it. But there are few stainless Galahads. Strength and rightness do not depend on the past, but the present. The finest strength I have seen, has been in men who, who——"
The intended conclusion died on his lips, before he found words to soften its intrinsically harsh implication. Corrie had turned to him a glance so clear, a face so startling in its white resolution and dignity of fearless candor, that Gerard drew back with a sensation of rebuked presumptuousness. What he had offered as a consolation suddenly loomed as an insult.
"Thank you," said Corrie, quite simply. "You're awfully good to me, Gerard. I don't know why I said all that—I, I guess something slipped. Good night; Fred and I will get some sleep. It's a short night, anyhow."
XVI
THE WHITE ROAD OF HONOR
The ruddy dawn that flushed along the edge of the east illuminated a vast, waiting multitude. For its twelve miles of twisted length, the narrow ribbon of the Cup course was walled in on either side by the massed people and uncounted hundreds of automobiles. The neighboring States, the great cities of New York and Jersey, the countrysides far and near had emptied their motor-car enthusiasts and sport lovers into this strip of Long Island, for to-day. Laughing, eating picnic breakfasts, laying wagers and preparing score-cards, the crowd swayed tiptoe on the keen edge of expectancy; while up and down the course drove and pushed the hurrying hundreds who had not yet found satisfactory place.