But the battle had waned. Twice Diablo had been pulled to his knees, forced down by the fierce strength that was Lauzanne's; the Black was all but conquered. The Trainer's voice checked Lauzanne's fury; even the boy had plucked up courage to return; and between them the Chestnut was driven into his stall. All the fight had been taken out of Diablo. He struggled to his feet, and stood trembling like a horse that had come out of a fierce cutting race. On his neck were the marks of Lauzanne's teeth, where they had snapped like the jaws of a trap; from his crest trickled a red stream that dripped to the floor like water from a running eave. All the fierce fire of hate had gone from his eyes. He hung his head dejectedly, and his flanks quivered. Lauzanne, too, bore evidence of the vicious strife. On one quarter, where Diablo's sharp hoof had ripped, was a cut as though he had been lashed with a sickle, and his withers were torn.
Mortimer and Allis had come out of the stall. The man, exhausted by the struggle, leaned wearily, with pale, drawn face, against the wall; the floor seemed slipping from under him; he felt a sensation of swiftly passing off into nothingness. He was sleepy, that was all; but a sleepiness to fight against--he must still fight.
“You are badly hurt.” It was the girl's voice. He was almost surprised that he recognized it, everything was so confused. He answered heavily, “Yes, I'm--I'm--I want--to lie down.”
“Here, lean on my shoulder.” It was Mike's voice this time. “This is bad business,” the Trainer was saying; “we must get him out of this; he's nearly knocked out. Are ye all right, Miss?” turning to Allis.
The wounded man turned guiltily; he had forgotten the girl. Yes, surely she had been in that hell of noises with him--fighting too.
“I'm just frightened, that's all,” answered Allis. “Mr. Mortimer saved me.”
Had he? he wondered. How had he come in there, anyway? His mind refused to work out the problem; his side was so sore.
“Yer arm's broke,” said Mike, passing to Mortimer's right side. “Come, lean on me, sir. Can ye walk? I'll put ye in the buggy and drive ye to the house.”
At the first step Mortimer staggered and swayed like a drunken man. In his side were many sharp things pulling him down like grappling irons; on his head was a great weight that crushed his feet into the hard planks; his knees gave under this load, and he would have fallen but for Mike's strong arm.