"They may well call you Satanella," she said; "and yet I could have been so good—so good!"
THROUGH THE MILL
"She was iron-sinewed and satin-skinned,
Ribbed like a drum, and limbed like a deer,
Fierce as the fire, and fleet as the wind,
There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear;
Rich lords had vexed me in vain to part,
For their gold and silver, with Britomart."[2]
"It describes your mare exactly, and how the gifted, ill-fated author would have liked a ride on such a flyer as Satanella."
The speaker's voice shook, and the cigar quivered between his lips while they pronounced that ill-omened name.
"She's better than common, General," was the reply. "Just look at her crest. They're the right sort, when they train on like that!"