SON OF THE WIND
It had felt the weight of man, the passive, stubborn endurance, but not the terrible assertion of power, the curb. That came a fresh, unfancied horror. The rider had not time to realize what had been done before he was swept headlong, across the clearing toward the high and ragged bank. The wall of the inclosure concealed it, but Carron knew well how it was there. He tried to remember how far down the wall extended to the silent, flowing water. The smell of wet moss and earth was in his nostrils, a memory as sharp as fact. He braced for the fall, felt himself lifted and whirled and refacing the arena of struggle. He had a dazed sense of amazement, an incredulous delight. Before his mind could embrace the possibility, that greater self of his had brought it about. It did not need that there should be walls to contain the frantic creature in the narrow circle. Carron alone held him there. It was a miracle, himself the god. A rush of triumph lifted him to the top wave. He found himself in control, seated again above the world, anticipating the first symptoms of submission.
It came unexpectedly, with a dead pause in the middle of the corral. It was too complete. He suspected. He tightened the grip of his knees. At the same time he heard a voice calling faintly. One of those dark, dancing sparks was giving tongue. He recognized Esmeralda Charley's voice, no word
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