As the horses scored for a start Imperial Don had the pole, The Prince was second, with Daystar on the outside. They came down fast, for their blood was up, and there was to be no dallying. They got off easily, and everyone in that vast assemblage drew a long breath, then became silent. Imperial Don held his place gallantly, but The Prince's hot breath spouted upon his flank at every leap. The other horse was half a length behind. Thus they went, scarcely shifting their relative positions the first time around. Down the stretch and past the grandstand like winged things they flew, and then Imperial Don began to weaken. Again and again his rider applied the whip, but it was no use. The pace was simply killing, and the horse had done his best. At the quarter post The Prince took the pole, and Daystar, who had been held in reserve, came after him. He came like the wind, too—a long, white, phantom shape which seemed possessed of the devil. Before another quarter was run he was neck and neck with the bay colt, but there he stuck. It was a race good to behold. Thumping the springy earth in measured rhythm the fleet hoofs sped towards the goal. Into the home stretch they dashed. Three thousand pairs of eyes were watching them, and they seemed to know it. Like a span in harness they plunged forward; like two engines of the rail. The Prince's slim breast was flecked with white. His neck was outstretched; his pointed ears lay flat on his head. His long mane beat in the contorted face of the monkey-like figure on his back. Every strong muscle in all his lithe body was strained to the last limit. The racing blood of countless winners was aflame, and with almost human intelligence he strove bravely for the mastery. Inch by inch he began to lead away! On towards the wire, his red-rimmed eyes bulging, his veined nostrils inflamed and quivering. The watching people saw, and instantly such a shout arose that it pierced the blue above. Another moment, and the noble animal shot past the goal a neck ahead, and the race was won!
CHAPTER XVIII
Glenning's engagement was for eight o'clock the following evening, but he did not come till nine. Julia met him at the door, garbed in some dainty white stuff with lace about it, and wearing one rose in her hair, which waved from her forehead and was dressed low upon her neck.
"I must apologize for my tardiness," he said, gravely, as they walked into the library, which was softly lighted by a shaded lamp. "But as I was starting out I had an urgent call from a very poor family on the edge of town. A little child had fallen and broken its leg. It was a "charity call," but I hope you will pardon me. I could not let it suffer."
She felt a warm glow steal to her cheeks as she listened.
"You did right," she told him; "I was sure you had a good reason for being late."
He tried to speak of the race, but could not. She was also mute. The hour was too tense for conventionalities. A silence fell between them. Then suddenly the man gathered together all his moral strength and arose to his feet. She looked up quickly. He did not meet her eyes till he had walked to the mantel. Then, facing about, he leaned his elbow upon it, and returned her gaze.
"The time is ripe for an understanding between us," he said, the awful strain under which he was labouring making his voice unnatural.
The girl could see that the old haunting gloom had come to his eyes. He was very white, and the crescent scar upon his forehead was outlined sharply, even in the dim light.