Asmodeus was leading; he knew that. Asmodeus had been leading for quite a long time. Don Quixote, with his glitter of gold, was several lengths behind, and there were two or three horses in between. Which were they? Mostyn tried to distinguish them but failed. What did it matter? Asmodeus was leading.
Suddenly the thumping that was the beating of his heart stopped. It was like the sudden cessation of work in a factory or the stopping of the engines on board a steamer. Mostyn swayed a little from side to side; he could imagine the rolling of a vessel. Asmodeus was no longer in the front. What did that matter? Stanhope was holding him in. There was time enough yet for a spurt.
There was a cold wind blowing that afternoon, and the sky was grey. A drizzling rain began to fall. Here and there umbrellas made their appearance till angry protests from the crowd compelled them to be lowered. Mostyn noticed all these minor events through the mist that rendered everything so grotesque to his view.
The horses were near by now, very near. They had swung round the bend and were nearly level with the Grand Stand. Asmodeus had dropped still further behind; there were several of his opponents who had caught up and passed him. The glitter of gold was to the fore. Don Quixote led.
How the crowd was roaring! As a rule this was music to Mostyn's ears, but to-day it was a fantastic discord. He could distinguish nothing, not a single articulate word. Why on earth did not Stanhope spurt? Surely, surely he was waiting too long?
Mostyn's brow was wet. He did not know if this was due to perspiration or to the rain; he could not say if he felt hot or cold. This was his last chance—literally his last chance—and still that spurt was delayed.
Ah! Stanhope is giving Asmodeus his head now! "Come on, Asmodeus—brave horse!—for the love of heaven, come!" The chestnut is passed; that is good: now another is held and left behind; now another. Asmodeus has forged into the second place, but the winning-post is close at hand, and Don Quixote of the maddening, aggressive gold is still foremost. Curse the gold!
It was a brave effort, but it failed, for Don Quixote, too, was capable of a spurt. All but overhauled, the horse seemed to gather his whole strength into that supreme moment. Once more he shot ahead—yellow, huge and grotesque to Mostyn's eyes—and passed the winning-post just a palpable length ahead.
It was over: Mostyn had played and lost!
He descended from the chair upon which he had been standing, quite forgetting that Isaacson was by his side, and strolled away. The rain beat in his face, his cheeks were dripping with moisture, but it did not occur to him to put up his umbrella. Now and then he collided with someone in the crowd and muttered an apology without looking round.