Count Grieben! Carl Brandow! Like an alarm of fire the names flew from lip to lip along the stand, down the steps, and through the dense throng of men below, who were standing on tiptoe and stretching their necks; Count Grieben! Carl Brandow on Brownlock!
Carl Brandow! A strange emotion thrilled Gotthold's frame. That was the name which, like the spell of some evil magician, had desolated and ruined his life; the name with which so many unpleasant thoughts had been connected from his youth, and which in early and later times, and even during the last few days, had been to him the incarnation of the principle that in every human breast strives and rebels against the God of light. And here the name rang on his ears from every lip. Carl Brandow! Carl Brandow! like a man from whose approach streams happiness and blessing; and beautiful eyes sparkled, and aristocratic hands impatiently fluttered the lace-edged handkerchiefs with which they wished to wave a welcome to the victor. Was the man whom a whole people thus awaited in breathless suspense, perhaps right when he ventured all and anything to gain his shining goal; wealth, and honor, and woman's favor? Could one who took every obstacle so boldly, be expected to turn aside from his path for a pious scruple? Could one who unhesitatingly risked his life when the victory could not be obtained at a lesser price, be blamed if he was not so punctilious about the weal and woe or even the lives of others, as may be expected and demanded from the quiet citizen?
Such were the strange thoughts that passed through Gotthold's brain, while his eyes, like those of the assembled thousands, were fixed upon the spot pointed out by the experts near him as the one where the riders must again appear. And there they were already--now recognizable as horsemen, even by the naked eye--and "Count Grieben and Carl Brandow" burst forth anew. For only two emerged at the same time, while the third had already lost so much ground that he appeared full thirty seconds later. Nothing more was to be expected from him. At the speed with which the horses were running a lost second could not be regained, let alone the eternity of thirty! The result now depended upon Brownlock and Bessy, the two horses that had been the object of public attention from the first moment and on which immense sums had been staked up to the last. Would Brownlock win? Would Bessy carry off the prize? No one dared to decide, no one offered or accepted a bet; they scarcely ventured to speak, to stir; suspense had chained every tongue. The scales were still exactly poised, without bending in the least towards either side. If Bessy, as was universally asserted, was the faster animal, Brandow's well-known skill in horsemanship made up for the difference; head to head--the winding course to the stand could be as distinctly followed as the lines on a map--the horses leaped over the last hurdle but three, the last but two, the last but one; side by side the riders took the last obstacle, a wall six feet high, while a cry of admiration buzzed through the surging crowd. Then followed a breathless silence. The race must be decided within the next minute. After the last hurdle was a tract of perfectly level ground about five hundred paces long; then came several hundred acres of bog, marked by little flags affixed to poles. If Brownlock did not get a very considerable lead on the level ground, the race was lost to him; for Bessy--every one knew--could cross a marsh as lightly as a roe, and Brownlock would either stick fast or must take a round-about way, which would cost him his advantage and the victory.
But Brownlock obtained no advantage, not a foot, not an inch; head to head they dashed across half the distance, and now Bessy took the lead, a half, a whole length, two, three, a half-dozen lengths. Those who had bet on Brownlock turned pale, but a hundred times as much was staked on Bessy; the betters exchanged triumphant glances; no one had time to speak; Bessy was already approaching the edge of the bog; her rider was seen to turn in his saddle to note the distance between him and his rival, and now he turned to the left towards the edge of the swamp. "Clever fellow," cried old Count Grieben; "it's wider, Your Highness, it's wider there, but the ground is firmer, and he has plenty of time. Brownlock can't come up with her, hurrah!" cried the enthusiastic old gentleman, waving his hat. "Hurrah, hurrah!" echoed from the fickle crowd, which had just cheered Brownlock; "Bessy wins, Brownlock loses. Hurrah!"
Suddenly a deep silence followed, as if a thunderbolt had fallen before the eyes of all. Brandow reached the spot from which, a few seconds before, Count Grieben, rendered secure of the victory by his opponent's delay, had turned aside; and with a powerful bound Brownlock dashed upon the bog, without turning a hair's breadth from the straight course, flying directly over the deepest but narrowest part, with a speed which seemed to increase every moment, while his rider, as if going over the smoothest meadow-land, used neither whip nor spur, and waved his hand to his rival, as he darted by him with such speed that the water dashed into the air in a bright shower of spray.
And now he had already reached the edge on the side nearest the stand, and came up the broad straight course which led to the goal--no longer at full speed, but in a long stretching gallop, as if to jeer at his opponent, who after reaching the firm ground, despairing of victory, had stopped; it seemed as if he wished to give the crowd an opportunity to offer their homage.
And "Hurrah Brownlock! hurrah Brandow!" they shouted, waving their hats and caps, and the cry increased and swelled to a deafening, thundering roar as the victor now rode past the stands to the goal, in the same long stretching gallop. Everybody stood on tiptoe, the gentlemen cheering, the ladies waving their handkerchiefs--and now all crowded down the broad steps to the level ground, to see the victor and the beautiful horse still nearer, when he, as was customary, returned and again passed before the stands, but this time at a walk.
"No privileges are recognized here, strength conquers," said the Prince, who as well as Gotthold was pushed down the steps by the swaying crowd; "the strength of enthusiasm, which is powerful even in the weak. Just see how heroically that delicate lady struggles through the throng--Is it Frau Brandow? I should like to offer her my arm."
The lady's blue veil brushed against Gotthold's face, and he recognized Alma Sellien. She did not see him, though she stood directly beside him. The delicate, wan face was strangely beautified by the proud smile that hovered on the lips; a joyous light sparkled in the blue eyes, usually so dull and heavy; heeding nothing around her, she looked and waited for the coming of the man she loved, whose uncovered head was just visible above the surging crowd. And now a pair of bay shoulders appeared, vanished, and appeared again, then the beautiful head of a horse, and then the whole figure of the red-coated rider. Those standing in the foremost row, recognizing the Prince, made way, and he, with several other ladies and gentlemen, among them Alma Sellien, were pressed forward, while the ranks closed before Gotthold, who willingly drew back. Brandow, who, hat in hand, was bowing to the right and left, and talking to a few friends that surrounded him, had come very near them, when he saw the Prince, with Alma Sellien leaning on his arm. An amazed smile flitted over his face; he hastily turned Brownlock till he faced the pair, and bowed low over the racer's slender neck. The noble animal stood snorting, champing its bit, and pawing impatiently. Suddenly it sprang aside in wild alarm, and then, as its rider tried to force it back to the spot, reared. "Back!" shouted the Prince to the crowd, who, pressing forward from every direction, had collected in a dense mass. But those farther away, whom no immediate danger threatened, remained motionless. "Back, back!" cried the Prince again; the ladies screamed. "Jump down, Brandow!" exclaimed the gentlemen. But Brandow seemed to have forgotten his universally admired horsemanship. Some said afterwards that he had been stunned from the first moment by the violence with which, as the horse threw back its head in rearing, it struck him on the forehead. As he vainly struggled with the animal in an inconceivably preposterous manner, his eyes were fixed intently upon a man in the crowd, who in some way--all were pressing upon each other in wild confusion--had reached the foremost rank, and now, with upraised arms, sprang directly before, nay under the rearing horse; it was supposed he wanted to pull the furious animal down by the bridle.
"Let me pass, for God's sake!" cried Gotthold.