Yet not to save his life, his soul,
could he regret it! Was it he who had been responsible, or an unknown savage
within him? He had kept his word to Lucy, when day after day he had burned
with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as he lifted her to
Wildfire's saddle, had made a madman out of him. He had swept her into his
arms and held her breast to his, her face before him, and he had kissed the
sweet, parting lips till he was blind.
Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then he learned how he had
fallen, what he had forfeited. In his amaze at himself, in his humility and
shame, he had not been able to say a word in his own defense. She did not know
yet that his act had been ungovernable and that he had not known what he was
doing till too late. And she had finished with: "I'll ride Wildfire in the
race--but I won't have him--and I won't have YOU! NO!"
She had the steel and hardness of her father.
For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of rapture and despair. He
lived over in mind all the time between the race and this hour when he lay
there sleepless and full of remorse.
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