Therefore, still as one in a dream, he begins to count them to
himself, over and over again. Yet, count how he will, can make them
no more than seven all told, and he wonders dully where the rest may
be.
Well in advance of the survivors the Viscount is going strong, with
Slingsby and the Marquis knee and knee behind; next rides Carnaby
with two others, while Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman,
brings up the rear. Inch by inch Barnabas gains upon him, draws level
and is past, and so "The Terror" once more sees before him Sir
Mortimer's galloping gray.
But now--something is wrong in front,--there is a warning yell from
the Marquis--up flashes the Captain's long arm, for "Moonraker" has
swerved suddenly, unaccountably,--loses his stride, and falls back
until he is neck and neck with "The Terror." Thus, still as one in a
dream, Barnabas is aware, little by little, that the Viscount's hat
and whip are gone, and that he is swaying oddly in the saddle with
"Moonraker's" every stride--catches a momentary glimpse of a pale,
agonized face, and hears the Viscount speaking:
"No go, Bev!" he pants. "Oh, Bev, I'm done! 'Moonraker's' game,
but--I'm--done, Bev--arm, y'know--devilish shame, y'know--"
And Barnabas sees that the Viscount's sleeve is all blood from the
elbow down.
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