s. Wildfire answered with
a scream and a greater speed. All except Lucy and Sage King and
Wildfire seemed so strange and unreal--the swift rush between the
pines, now growing ghostly in the dimming light, the sense of a
pursuing, overpowering force, and yet absolute silence.

Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could not resist it. Some
horrible fascination compelled him. All behind had changed. A hot wind,
like a blast from a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into his
face. The fire was racing in the tree-tops, while below all was yet
clear. A lashing, leaping flame engulfed the canopy of pines. It was
white, seething, inconceivably swift, with a thousand flashing tongues.
It traveled ahead of smoke. 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. He was running to his
death, whether or not he distanced the fire. Nothing could stop him now
but a bursting heart.

Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost within reach of the
King! One throw--one sudden swerve--and the King would go down. Lucy
would know only a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could he kill
her--crush that dear golden head? He could not, yet he must! He saw a
long, curved, red welt on Lucy's white shoulders. What was that? Had a
branch lashed her? Slone could not see her face. She could not have
been dead or in a faint, for she was riding the King, bound as she was!

Closer and closer drew Wildfire.