“It is a splendid race!” cried the judges, as the last quarter stake was passed.
“Run, Ildiko!”
“Use thy whip, Kerœcia! Thou must not let them beat thee after all!”
“Give them their heads, Alcyesta! Thy reins are too tight!”
The women were leaning forward talking to the nervy roadsters, with hair flying over their shoulders, ribbons fluttering, and the wheels fairly singing as they flew past the chalk-line.
“It is an open race for the cup. Kerœcia took no advantage. Now she must run for it!”
And she did. Saphis and Phoda knew her voice. They caught her impulse as she loosed the rein, and they went like the wind.
“Crack! crack!” snapped her tiny whiplash.
It seemed as if the caribou would jump out of their skins. Not being accustomed to the whip, they were much more frightened by its noise than by the sting of its lash. Theirs was simply a mad headlong plunge forward, taken in time to clear the first goal.
Ildiko and Alcyesta had enough to do in preventing a break as their knowing animals neared the scene of their former mishap. They were fearless runners, and responded gamely to the lash; but there was an imperceptible hesitation, a disposition to shy, and Kerœcia whipped in a full neck ahead.