"It can't go on!" thought Leprauchan's jockey, feeling the chestnut beginning to roll, while pulling more than ever. "If I can but keep alongside, she must run herself out, and there's nothing else left in the race."
But his whip was up when they made their turn for a run in, and he landed over his last fence with a scramble that lost him at least a length.
"Leprauchan's beat!" shouted the crowd. "Satanella wins! It's all over—it's a moral. The mare for a million! The mare! The mare!!"
Blanche Douglas turned pale as death, and Norah Macormac began to cry.
Satanella was approaching the distance with Leprauchan beat off, and Shaneen a length behind.
Here occurred one of those casualties which no amount of care avails to prevent, nor of caution to foresee.
The crowd in their eagerness had swayed in on the course. A woman carrying a child lost her footing, and fell helpless, directly in front of the black mare.
Daisy managed to avoid them, with a wrench at the bridle that saved their lives, and lost him some twenty feet of ground. In the next three strides, Shaneen's brown muzzle was at his quarters—at his knee—at his breast-plate.
Never before had Satanella felt whip or spur. These were applied to some purpose, and gamely she answered the call; nevertheless, that shabby little horse drew on her, inch by inch.
They were neck and neck now, Shaneen's jockey sitting in the middle of his saddle, perfectly still.