Lucy was pulling him hard, and had him plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle.
Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back.

He pounded the ground and scattered the pebbles.
"No use, Lucy," said Bostil.

"You can't beat the King at your own game, even with a runnin' start." Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, and now they flashed like his.

She had a hand twisted in the horse's long mane, and as, lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little gantleted fist at Bostil's gray racer.
"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human.

"And I'll beat you some day!" Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild upland country of wonderful horses.