It was so
thin he could see the branches through it, and the fiery clouds behind. It
swept onward, a sublime and an appalling spectacle. Slone could not think of
what it looked like. It was fire, liberated, freed from the bowels of the
earth, tremendous, devouring. This, then, was the meaning of fire. This, then,
was the horrible fate to befall Lucy.
But no! He thought he must be insane not to be overcome in spirit. Yet he was
not. He would beat the flame to Lucy. He felt the loss of something, some kind
of a sensation which he ought to have had. Still he rode that race to kill his
sweetheart better than any race he had ever before ridden. He kept his seat;
he dodged the snags; he pulled the maddened horse the shortest way, he kept
the King running straight.
No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wildfire was outracing wind and
fire, and he was overhauling the most noted racer of the uplands against a
tremendous handicap. But now he was no longer racing to kill the King; he was
running in terror. For miles he held that long, swift, wonderful stride
without a break.
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