“Maurie!”
“Thank God I’ve found you!”
“Yes, thank God!”
“This way after me. There’s the door!”
“Jac!”
“Here!”
And a demoniac sprang at Maurie through the dark.
Accustomed by this time to the dim light, the crowd was swirling rapidly through the door, and in the outgoing tide went Jac. The same confusion which made a hell of the dance-hall reigned in the open air. But there was more space to maneuver, and Jac gathered her gown up high and slipped through the crowd to the place at which Carrigan had tethered his horse.
She caught the pommel and swung up to the saddle like a man. There was a sickening sound of ripping and tearing. The green gown was hopelessly done for. She gave no thought to it, and landing astride in the saddle—a position which completed the ruin of the dress—she gave the horse his head and drove forward with a shout like that of a drunken cow-puncher.
And she was truly intoxicated with triumph. The men of her choice fought for her in the dance-hall. They were her knights battling for the smile of their lady. To one of them would go the victory, but hers was all the glory. She shouted at the coming dawn and urged the horse into a faster run. The wind caught at her face and whistled sharply past her ears—the song of victory!