Sally Dupré called to him from the fence. He came like a charge in a spatter of clean-cut clods, Ears back, eyes wide and wild with folly and youth. He drew up snorting. She laughed and brushed at her skirt Where the mud had splashed it. “There, Star⁠—there, silly boy! Why won’t you ever learn sense?” But her eyes were hot, Her hands were shaking as she offered the sugar —Long-fingered, appleblossom-shadow hands⁠— Star blew at the sugar once, then mumbled it up. She patted the pink nose. “There, silly Star! That’s for Fort Sumter, Star!” How hot her eyes were! “Star, do you know you’re a Confederate horse? Do you know I’m going to call you Beauregard?”