“Oh, Ben, Queen won’t come out! What shall I do?”
“You can do nothing, child. A horse won’t come out of a burning stable unless he’s blindfolded. They’ll all be burned to death.”
“Oh! no!” the girl cried in agony.
“They’d trample you to death if you tried to get them out. It can’t be helped. It’s too late.”
As Ben looked back at the gathering crowd, Marion suddenly snatched a horse blanket, lying at the door, ran with the speed of a deer to the pond, plunged in, sprang out, and sped back to the open door of Queen’s stall, through which her shrill cry could be heard above the others.
As the girl ran toward the burning building, her thin white dress clinging close to her exquisite form, she looked like the marble figure of a sylph by the hand of some great master into which God had suddenly breathed the breath of life.
As they saw her purpose, a cry of horror rose from the crowd, her mother’s scream loud above the rest.
Ben rushed to catch her, shouting:
“Marion! Marion! She’ll trample you to death!”
He was too late. She leaped into the stall. The crowd held their breath. There was a moment of awful suspense, and the mare sprang through the open door with the little white figure clinging to her mane and holding the blanket over her head.