"Don't ask me who or what I am. If I am beaten I shall simply go on my way, but if I win I shall remain here," was all that the jurors could get in answer to their questions. Nobody knew the youth. He was a handsome, ruddy young fellow of about six and twenty, with a little spiral moustache twisted upwards in betyár fashion, flowing curly locks gathered up into a top-knot, black flashing eyes, and a bold expressive mouth, slight of build, but muscular and supple. His dress was rustic, but simple almost to affectation; you would not have found a seal on his white bulging shirt, search as you might, and he wore his cap, with a tuft of meadow-sweet in it, as gallantly as any cavalier.
Wherever he might have got the steed on which he sat, it was a splendid animal—a restive Transylvanian full-blood, with tail and mane long and strong reaching to the ground; not for an instant could it remain quiet, but danced and pranced continually.
They made him draw lots, and then placed him in a line with the rest.
At last the signal-guns were fired. At the first thundering report the steeds began to rear and plunge; at the second they grew quite still, alertly pricking up their ears; one or two of the old racers slightly pawed the ground. Then the third report sounded, and the same instant the whole row plunged forward into the arena.
Five or six immediately forged ahead of the rest. These were the more impetuous horsemen, who are wont to spur their horses to the front at the outset, only to fall behind afterwards: among them was the last-comer also. The Whitsun King was in the centre group; now and then he snapped his fingers, but as yet he had not moved his whip. Only when three hundred paces had been traversed did he suddenly clap his spurs to his horse's flanks,
lash out with his whip, utter a loud cry, and in three bounds was ahead of the others.
Then, indeed, began a shouting and yelling and cracking of whips. Every horseman lay forward on the neck of his horse, caps fell, capes flew, and in mid-course every one fancied he was going to win. One steed stumbled beneath his rider; the rest galloped on.
From the carriages it was easy to see how the Whitsun King was galloping along among the rest, his long chaplet of flowers streaming in the wind behind him. One by one he overtook those who were galloping in front of him, and as often as he left one of them behind he gave him a crack with his whip, crying derisively, "Wire away, little brother!"
By the time three quarters of the course was traversed he had plainly left them all behind, or rather all but one—the stranger-youth.
Martin hastened after him likewise. His horse was longer in the body, but the other's was as swift as the wind. And now only two hundred paces were between them and the goal. The youth looked back upon his competitor with a confident smile, whereupon the gentlemen in the carriages shouted, "Hold fast!" which warning applied equally to both competitors. Master Jock actually stood up to see better, the contest had now become exciting.