“How can that be?” questioned Lucy, in astonishment.

“I give him to you.”

“You—­give—­Wildfire—­to me?” gasped Lucy.

“Yes.  Right now.”

The rider’s white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate sacrifice.

“Lin Slone! . . .  I can’t—­understand you.”

“You’ve got to ride Wildfire in that race.  You’ve got to beat the King. . . .  So I give Wildfire to you.  An’ now you can’t help but ride him.”

“Why—­why do you give him—­to me?” faltered Lucy.

All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed lost in blankness.

“Because you love Wildfire.  An’ Wildfire loves you. . . .  If that isn’t reason enough—­then . . . because I love him—­as no rider ever loved a horse. . . .  An’ I love you as no man ever loved a girl!”

Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy.  She dropped her head.  She knew of his infatuation.  But he had always been shy except once when he had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel.  With a strange pain at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before?  It made as great a change in her as if she had been born again.  It released something.  A bolt shot back in her heart.  She knew she was quivering like a leaf, with no power to control her muscles.  She knew if she looked up then Slone might see the depths of her soul.  Even with her hands shutting out the light she thought the desert around had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight of dreams—­and that the monuments soared above them grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of love and joy to her.  And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet hands over her face.

“There’s nothin’ to—–­to cry about,” Slone was saying.  “But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Will—­you—­please—­fetch Sarch?” asked Lucy, tremulously.

While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself outwardly.  And she had two very strong desires—­one to tell Slone something, and the other to run.  She decided she would do both together.

Slone brought Sarchedon.  Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at Slone.  He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes there was sadness.  Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart—­and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her.

“Lin, I won’t take Wildfire,” she said.

“Yes, you will.  You can’t refuse.  Remember he’s grown to look to you.  It wouldn’t be right by the horse.”

“But he’s all you have in the world,” she protested.  Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain.

“No.  I have good old faithful Nagger.”

“Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion—­like Wildfire?” asked Lucy, curiously.  She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render happiness when she chose.