The brave, even in despair, are defiant.

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Like phantoms, they were the last wild steers on the crest of the hill against that horizon, from which, beyond, they seemed to reappear in that moonlight of Duval, proud as ever, defiant braves of the vaquero, who had vanished for what seemed ages. 

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How gallant is the appearance of the free; it is grace in every move, springing off as music from a string. – Ricardo Moreno Beasley