Once Morgan quivered as he remembered what his father had told him of Eclipse: “Eclipse first, the rest nowhere!”
To-day it should be “Morgan first, Silvertail nowhere!” The breeze blew lightly at his mane, his eyes glowed, his neck strained as the signal was given.
Morgan leaped forward. They were off!
Swift, as one of a race divine who flies, rather than treads the earth, Morgan’s deep, wide chest cleaved the air.
Pressing close came Silvertail, breathing heavily.
Mistress Lloyd had given Morgan his head, with intimate trust and understanding. He would win—in his own way—and she knew it. She was low in the saddle, leaning close to his extended neck, pressing her knees against his side. In a tender, restrained voice she whispered, almost in his ear:
“Win, my beauty! Win me my soldier at West Point! Win me my love, my home, my father, and my freedom from the persecutions of this man! Fly on! Fly on, you ‘Bird of the Desert’! Win, and Allah will bless you!”
She was stretched like an Indian along the back of her running horse.
Then—there they were at the end of the course, Morgan a full length ahead of Silvertail!
In an instant she was off and had buried her face in Morgan’s mane; she was sobbing and laughing all at once, with her arms close about the horse’s neck, as if she would never let him go!