The noise of strife in Diablo's box had increased. There came the sound of blows on the horse's ribs; a muttered oath, and suddenly a scream of terror from the boy, drowned in an instant by the ferocious battlecry of the enraged stallion. Mortimer, thirty yards away, heard it, and felt his heart stand still; he had never heard anything so demoniac in his life. He turned in such haste that his foot slipped on the frozen earth, and he fell heavily.

At the first sound of blows Allis had started angrily toward Diablo's box. She was at the door when Shandy's cry of terror rang out. For an instant the girl hesitated; what she saw was enough to make a strong man quail. The black stallion was loose; with crunching jaws he had fastened on the arm of Shandy, in the corner of the stall, and was trying to pull the boy down that he might trample him to death. But for a second she faltered; if ever quick action were needed, it was now.

“Back—back, Diablo! back!” she cried, as pushing past the black demon she brought her hunting-crop down with full force between his ears.

Whether it was the sound of his mistress's voice, or the staggering blow, Diablo dropped the boy like a crushed rat, and, half rearing, looked viciously at the brave girl.

“Quick! through the hay window!” commanded Allis, standing between Shandy and the horse, and drawing the whip back over her left shoulder, ready to give it to Diablo full in the throat should he charge again.

Cowed, the boy clambered through the opening. Enraged at the sight of his assailant's escape, the horse gave another scream of defiance and sought with striking forefeet and spread jaws to pull down this new enemy. Not until then had Allis thought of calling for help; her one idea had been for the boy's safety.

Like a flash the full peril of the situation dawned upon her; perhaps her life would be given for the boy who well deserved his punishment. She had seen two stallions fight, and knew that their ferocious natures, once roused, could only be quelled by a force stronger than she possessed. Yes, surely she would be killed-her young life trampled out by the frenzied animal. Incoherently but altogether these thoughts filled her mind; also the knowledge that Mike was beyond hearing.

“Help, Mortimer!” she called.

He heard it as he reached the stable door. Even then he would have been too late had not other rescue come more quickly.

In rushing from Lauzanne's stall Allis had left the door swinging on its hinges. At the first cry of defiance from the black stallion Lauzanne had stretched high his head and sent back, with curled nostril, an answering challenge. Then with ears cocked he had waited for a charge from his natural enemy. When the mingled call of his mistress and Diablo's bugle note came to him he waited no longer, but rushed across the passage and seized the black horse by the crest just as he was overpowering the girl.

It was at that instant Mortimer reached the scene—in his hand a stable fork he had grabbed as he raced down the passage. Even Lauzanne's attack, though it gave Allis a respite, would not have saved her life; the madly fighting horses would have kicked and trampled her to death.

“My God! Back, back, you devils!” And pushing, crowding, hugging the side of the stall, Mortimer fought his way to the girl.

Once Diablo's hoof shot out and the man's left arm, snapping like a pistol, dropped useless at his side. His brain reeled with the shock. The oddly swinging arm, dangling like a doll's, with the palm turned backward, seemed to fascinate him. Why was he there? What was he doing? Why was he hammering the horses over the head with a stable fork held tightly in his right hand? He hardly knew; his mind was clouded; he was fighting by instinct, and always crowding along the wall toward the farther corner. The girl had quite faded from his sight. Somehow he felt that he must drive the horses back, back, out of the stall.

Allis, too, was fighting; bringing the crop down with cutting force over the withers, neck, head, any part of the plunging mass in front of her. She could escape now through the opening where the boy had gone; but was not Mortimer in the same position she had been? She had seen him drop to his knees when Diablo lashed out; he must be sorely hurt; now he was reeling like a drunken man as he fought the mad brutes.

“This way,” she panted, catching him by the coat, and pulling him toward the window.

Ah, that was it! He saw her now. It steadied his senses. It was the girl, and she had called him—“Mortimer!”

“Back,” he yelled irrelevantly, in answer, cutting Diablo across the face with the fork. It was pandemonium.

“Get through the window!” the girl screamed in his ear. “Quick! Now!” and she pushed him toward it.

“You—first—back, you devils!” and he pressed away from her, closer to the horses, thrusting and striking with the steel-pointed fork.

The horses were giving way; Diablo was fighting half through the door, weakening before the onslaught of the powerful chestnut. Even in battle, as in a race, the stamina of the Lazzarone blood was telling; the bulldog courage of the strain was strong upon Lauzanne, now that he was roused.

“Quick! You can get out!” again called the girl.

“You first!”

This drear, repetition was the only expression Mortimer's numbed senses were equal to; but he fought with the ferocity of a tiger—his wound but enraged him.

They could both escape, Allis knew, if she could bring Mortimer to understand; but they must do it quick, if at all. It was useless. He seemed conscious of but the one idea that he must drive the fighting animals out into the passage to save her. She was not afraid now; the man's presence had driven that all away. It was useless to speak to him of the window, neither would go first; so, with her riding whip she fought side by side with Mortimer; springing back from the swift-cutting forefeet; sometimes even hugging close to the side of a horse as he lashed out from behind; and once saving her companion from being cut down by pulling him swiftly from under a raised foot. In the end the stallions were forced out into the passage, just as Mike came rushing upon the scene.

But the battle had waned. Twice Diablo had been pulled to his knees, forced down by the fierce strength that was Lauzanne's; the Black was all but conquered. The Trainer's voice checked Lauzanne's fury; even the boy had plucked up courage to return; and between them the Chestnut was driven into his stall. All the fight had been taken out of Diablo. He struggled to his feet, and stood trembling like a horse that had come out of a fierce cutting race. On his neck were the marks of Lauzanne's teeth, where they had snapped like the jaws of a trap; from his crest trickled a red stream that dripped to the floor like water from a running eave. All the fierce fire of hate had gone from his eyes. He hung his head dejectedly, and his flanks quivered. Lauzanne, too, bore evidence of the vicious strife. On one quarter, where Diablo's sharp hoof had ripped, was a cut as though he had been lashed with a sickle, and his withers were torn.

Mortimer and Allis had come out of the stall. The man, exhausted by the struggle, leaned wearily, with pale, drawn face, against the wall; the floor seemed slipping from under him; he felt a sensation of swiftly passing off into nothingness. He was sleepy, that was all; but a sleepiness to fight against—he must still fight.

“You are badly hurt.” It was the girl's voice. He was almost surprised that he recognized it, everything was so confused. He answered heavily, “Yes, I'm—I'm—I want—to lie down.”

“Here, lean on my shoulder.” It was Mike's voice this time. “This is bad business,” the Trainer was saying; “we must get him out of this; he's nearly knocked out. Are ye all right, Miss?” turning to Allis.

The wounded man turned guiltily; he had forgotten the girl. Yes, surely she had been in that hell of noises with him—fighting too.

“I'm just frightened, that's all,” answered Allis. “Mr. Mortimer saved me.”

Had he? he wondered. How had he come in there, anyway? His mind refused to work out the problem; his side was so sore.

“Yer arm's broke,” said Mike, passing to Mortimer's right side. “Come, lean on me, sir. Can ye walk? I'll put ye in the buggy and drive ye to the house.”

At the first step Mortimer staggered and swayed like a drunken man. In his side were many sharp things pulling him down like grappling irons; on his head was a great weight that crushed his feet into the hard planks; his knees gave under this load, and he would have fallen but for Mike's strong arm.

“I'm—afraid;” then he set his teeth hard, his voice had sought to end the sentence in a groan of anguish; the thing that was tearing at his side had whistled in his lungs.

Allis stepped forward swiftly, and passing her arm about his waist, helped Mike lead him to the door. Twice she put her left hand up and brushed tears from her eyes; the struggle had unnerved her. Very helplessly against her swayed the man she had laughed at half an hour before. And he had been crushed saving her! But that was not why the tears came—not at all. She was unstrung. “And he's got grit,” she kept muttering to herself; “he has never even groaned.”

Together they succeeded in getting him into the buggy; then, gently, Mike drove to the house.