He swept the field with his glasses, and presently gave vent to a shout. "Come along, Pollux!" He glanced down in sudden trepidation. "Oh, it's all right! Miss Armitage isn't there. I may cheer my own horse. Come along, Pollux!"
Castor and Pollux were running practically level. Some four or five horses were in advance of them, and about the same number followed behind. Between these, the two big black colts, suddenly revealed by the dividing up of the field, stood out conspicuously. The lemon and lavender—the puce and black diamonds—the two horses that might have been twins—Castor and Pollux—battling together for Rada and for Mostyn—shoulder to shoulder, like brethren, yet, in very truth, the sternest of adversaries.
On they came, running easily, each palpably being held in by his rider, reserving force till it should be needed. The rest of the field was straggling by now. Two or three, including Prince Eugene and Candahar, had already dropped far behind, "stony," and quite out of the running. Pendragon was leading and looked like making a brave fight.
One by one the horses that were in advance of the favourites were overtaken, passed, and left behind. The crowd roared its delight at each succeeding achievement, for Castor and Pollux, once they elected to take the foremost place, would certainly not again drop behind. And still they came neck to neck and shoulder to shoulder.
Near Tattenham Corner, Pendragon still held the lead. The tussle was short and sharp. Castor and Pollux made a simultaneous spurt, and forged to the front amid the uproarious cheers of the vast, heaving mass of humanity that crowded Epsom Downs. It was a struggle now between the favourites, for there was none to challenge their advantage. But what a struggle! what a contest! what a race!
At Tattenham Corner, Pollux was leading by a little—very gradually, and without any display of premature energy, he was forcing the running. "Come along, Pollux!" yelled Sir Roderick, waving his arms, and perspiring with eagerness. "Brave horse! the race is yours!" He lowered his voice and muttered: "God send you first to the post!" The words were breathed like a prayer, and there was no irreverence in them. Sir Roderick knew all that the victory of Pollux meant to Mostyn—and to Rada.
"Hullo! what's up?" The cheers of the crowd changed to a yell of dismay. Those who were at the back and could see but ill, put the question frantically to the more fortunate ones in front. "A horse down? Which is it? Pollux? Good God!"
The name of Pollux swept from lip to lip. At the moment of rounding the Corner, Pollux had been seen to sway, to stumble—then, carried on by his own velocity, to go down head first. Castor swept by, unchallenged now, a clear course to victory before him.
Sir Roderick struck his fists violently together. "The devil's in it!" he roared. "Yes, the devil himself!" He dashed his hand over his eyes, which had suddenly grown dim.
"Poor Mostyn!" The words came from his heart.