As he rode in triumphant, an eager crowd of Don Pasquale’s backers surrounded him with loud congratulations. “Splendidly done! I never saw such riding in my life!” “That leap with a tired horse was the pluckiest thing ever attempted—there’s not another man on the course would have faced it!”
“The business of the brook was the cleverest dodge of all—I saw it through a race-glass, and I never expected you could have kept on him.”
“Didn’t the horse fall on you? are you hurt, Mr. Coverdale?” Such were some of the numerous remarks and exclamations which rang in Harry’s ears, as, faint and giddy, it was as much as he could do to retain his seat without falling from the saddle.
“Harry; my dear, kind friend, how can I ever thank you sufficiently?” exclaimed Lord Alfred Courtland, forcing his way through the crowd.
“Find the groom,” was the hurried reply, “for I can’t keep on the horse much longer.”
As he spoke, Dick, with a face crimson with heat and triumph, made his appearance, and took charge of Don Pasquale, while Harry, with a painful effort, swung himself to the ground, where he staggered and appeared scarcely able to stand.
“You are faint!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, hastily; “here, lean upon me, and let us get out of this crowd.”
“Take care of my arm,” murmured Harry, compressing his lips as though to restrain an expression of suffering.
“Your arm! why, good heaven! what is the matter with it?”
“It is only broken,” returned Harry, quietly; “the horse fell upon it with his full weight at the last leap; but I was able to hold him with one hand, so it did not signify.”