A stake-fence, a hedge, a ditch, and beyond that a clear stretch to
the winning-post.
At the fence, Carnaby sees "The Terror's" black head some six yards
behind; at the hedge, Barnabas has lessened the six to three; and at
the ditch once again the great, black horse gallops half a length
behind the powerful gray. And now, louder and louder, shouts come
down the wind!
"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'!
'Clasher'!"
But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing
drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's
flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping
up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure,
grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry
coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?
Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing,
spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and
sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and
uncertainty.
Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a
mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner
could possess.
Pages:
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601