And the forlorn hope
of Barry was to swing the stallion a little distance away from the banks,
run him with the last of his ebbing strength straight for the bank, and try
to clear the rocky portion of the river bed with a long leap that might, by
the grace of God, shoot him into the comparatively protected current. Even
then it would be a game only a tithe won, for the chances were ten to one
that before they could struggle close to the shore, the currents would
suck them out toward the center. They would never reach that shelving bit
of sand, but the sharp rocks of the stream would tear them a moment later
like teeth. Yet the dimmest chance was a good chance now.
He called Satan away from his course, and at the change of direction the
stallion staggered, but went on, turned at another call, and headed
straight for the stream. He was blind with running; he was numbed by the
long horror of that effort, no doubt, but there was enough strength left in
him to understand the master's mind. He tossed his head high, he flaunted
out his tail, and sped with a ghost of his old sweeping gallop toward the
bank.
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