When Silvertail recognized Morgan, which he did at once, he began to fret and prance. Morgan, however, made no false motions; he was saving every fibre of energy. With eager nostrils and arching crest he waited the signal to start. The Coxcomb sat his horse with consummate grace, but his eyes glittered cruelly, in a way that boded ill for Silvertail. In his hand he carried a silver-mounted whip, on his heels spurs shone. Mistress Lloyd, on the other hand, had neither whip nor spur; she ever depended on the tones of her voice for success with horses; sitting like a model for an Amazon, she waited, calm, serene. A furtive backward glance from Silvertail’s eye said plainly enough, “For less than a carrot I’d bolt, to get out of this race!” Once Morgan quivered as he remembered what his father had told him of Eclipse: “Eclipse first, the rest nowhere!” To-day it should be “Morgan first, Silvertail nowhere!” The breeze blew lightly at his mane, his eyes glowed, his neck strained as the signal was given. Morgan leaped forward. They were off! Swift, as one of a race divine who flies, rather than treads the earth, Morgan’s deep, wide chest cleaved the air. Pressing close came Silvertail, breathing heavily. Mistress Lloyd had given Morgan his head, with intimate trust and understanding. He would win--in his own way--and she knew it. She was low in the saddle, leaning close to his extended neck, pressing her knees against his side. In a tender, restrained voice she whispered, almost in his ear: “Win, my beauty! Win me my soldier at West Point! Win me my love, my home, my father, and my freedom from the persecutions of this man! Fly on! Fly on, you ‘Bird of the Desert’! Win, and Allah will bless you!” She was stretched like an Indian along the back of her running horse. Then--there they were at the end of the course, Morgan a full length ahead of Silvertail! In an instant she was off and had buried her face in Morgan’s mane; she was sobbing and laughing all at once, with her arms close about the horse’s neck, as if she would never let him go! Silvertail came up, a small spot of blood showing on his side where the cruel spur had wounded him. Master Knickerbocker drew from his pocket a packet of papers, taking his defeat outwardly in better part than might have been expected. “You have won, ma’am,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, for he had much to do to control himself. “You have won, and that right fairly. I could have wished it otherwise, nor do I _yet_ see how ’twas done! Your horse was better than mine, I suppose; and now I shall bid you good-bye, forever.” Mistress Lloyd took the packet in her trembling fingers; with her face still screened behind the Morgan, she said gently, “Nay, but I must thank you for these----” But she was interrupted, brusquely: