"Is he killed, do you think?" asked the lad.
"No; he's just dizzy after the wallops he got on the head. You'll see him get up in a minute."
The Angel had backed off a few paces and there he stood, head erect, waiting as motionless as a statue until the moment when his fallen adversary should rise, if at all.
Slowly the black pulled himself to his feet. His head came up. He eyed the now calm white stallion half hesitatingly.
The watchers fairly held their breath, for it was a dramatic moment.
"They're going to fight again," muttered Tad.
"He's licked! He's got enough!" exclaimed Bud.
The black turned his back upon the white stallion, and with lowered head, dejection and humiliation apparent in every line, every movement of his body, walked slowly back to his own band.
The Angel followed at a distance, almost to the lines of the enemy. Then he paused, galloped back to the center of the field, and throwing up his head uttered a long, shrill scream of triumph.
One by one the mares of Satan's band detached themselves from his ranks, and, with their colts, trotted across the field to join the Angel's band.