Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about
his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has
done a hard day's work and is ready to rest. He came close to the
veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly,
curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.

"The killer is no longer a killer," laughed Terry. "Look him over, Uncle
Vance. A beauty, eh?"

Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a
trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping
that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked
back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.

"He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry."

"Not much more. A leggy horse can't stand mountain work--or any other
work, for that matter, except a ride in the park."

"I suppose you're right. He's a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye,
but I see that you've beaten him."

"Beaten him?" He shook his head. "We reached a gentleman's agreement. As
long as I wear spurs, he'll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or
splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he'll keep on
fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop
tormenting him, he'll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.
Eh, boy?"