in the black mane of the stallion. But it was her face that smote
Graham most of all. It was a boy's face; it was a woman's face; it was
serious and at the same time amused, expressing the pleasure it found
woven with the peril. It was a white woman's face--and modern; and
yet, to Graham, it was all-pagan. This was not a creature and a
situation one happened upon in the twentieth century. It was straight
out of old Greece. It was a Maxfield Parrish reminiscence from the
Arabian Nights. Genii might be expected to rise from those troubled
depths, or golden princes, astride winged dragons, to swoop down out
of the blue to the rescue.

The stallion, forcing itself higher out of water, missed, by a shade,
from turning over backward as it sank. Glorious animal and glorious
rider disappeared together beneath the surface, to rise together, a
second later, the stallion still pawing the air with fore-hoofs the
size of dinner plates, the rider still clinging to the sleek, satin-
coated muscles. Graham thought, with a gasp, what might have happened
had the stallion turned over. A chance blow from any one of those four
enormous floundering hoofs could have put out and quenched forever the
light and sparkle of that superb, white-bodied, fire-animated woman.

"Ride his neck!" Dick shouted. "Catch his foretop and get on his neck
till he balances out!"

The woman obeyed, digging her toes into the evasive muscle-pads for
the quick effort, and leaping upward, one hand twined in the wet mane,
the other hand free and up-stretched, darting between the ears and
clutching the foretop. The next moment, as the stallion balanced out
horizontally in obedience to her shiftage of weight, she had slipped
back to the shoulders. Holding with one hand to the mane, she waved a