Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness.
"Wildfire ought to have several more days' training—then a day of rest—and then the race," said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.
A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. "Yes, Lucy," he said.
"And I'll HAVE to ride him?"
"You sure will—if he's ever to beat the King."
Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd—the curious, friendly Indians—the eager riders—the spirited horses—the face of her father—and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce, so wonderful.
"Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for me—until ... and if I accept him, and tell you why, will you promise to say—"
"Don't ask me again!" interrupted Slone, hastily. "I WILL speak to Bostil."
"Wait, will you ... promise not to say a word—a single word to ME—till after the race?"
"A word—to you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the dawn.