“The race is yet to be run!” the lady made reply, smiling, securely.
She released the fastenings of her plumed hat and tossed it to her father.
“Catch, Daddy, dear! I ride with no frills and furbelows to-day! I wish I were that light Francis Buckle. Do you recall, Father, how he won last year at Epsom on Tyrant, the very worst horse that ever won a Derby?”
“My daughter is almost as light as Buckle and the Morgan a better horse. We have nothing to fear!” So spoke Colonel Lloyd, bravely, and, patting Morgan’s long shoulder, he raised his hat with courtly grace and bade his daughter, “God-speed!” right gaily.
And Mistress Lloyd? She laughed serenely—that same brook-like laugh of long ago; her lip did not quiver nor her voice tremble. With such spirit do men go into battle. She gathered the reins in her slim, bare hands—no gloves should come between her and Morgan’s mouth that day—and smiled at her antagonist, as if to say:
“Morgan and I do not fear you and Silvertail!”
When Silvertail recognized Morgan, which he did at once, he began to fret and prance. Morgan, however, made no false motions; he was saving every fibre of energy. With eager nostrils and arching crest he waited the signal to start.
The Coxcomb sat his horse with consummate grace, but his eyes glittered cruelly, in a way that boded ill for Silvertail. In his hand he carried a silver-mounted whip, on his heels spurs shone.
Mistress Lloyd, on the other hand, had neither whip nor spur; she ever depended on the tones of her voice for success with horses; sitting like a model for an Amazon, she waited, calm, serene.
A furtive backward glance from Silvertail’s eye said plainly enough, “For less than a carrot I’d bolt, to get out of this race!”