‘Don’t you think Charlie’s making the pace too good?’ said Mr. Churbett. ‘I wanted him to wait till he got near the hill, but he said he thought the pace would try The Cid’s temper, and half a mistake would make him lose the race.’
‘They’re both going too fast now, in my opinion,’ said Forbes. ‘One of them will have a fall soon, and then the race is old Bargo’s, as sure as my name’s James.’
‘Oh, what a pretty sight!’ said Mrs. Snowden, as a large fence in full view of the whole assemblage was reached.
The native damsel was still leading, but the distance had visibly decreased which separated her from the popular heroes. All three horses were going best pace, and as the mare cleared the fence cleverly, but with little to spare, pressed by The Cid and St. Andrew, as they took the jump apparently in the same stride, a great cheer burst from the crowd.
‘Well done, Bargo!’ shouted the complimentary crowd, in high good-humour, as the old horse came up, quietly working out his programme, and topping the fence with but little visible effort, followed his more brilliant leaders. The others were by this time considerably in the rear, but took their jumps creditably still. The next fence was known to be the most dangerous in the whole course. The ground was broken and stony, the incline unpleasantly steep, and a small but annoying grip caused by the winter rains interfered with the approach. In the hunting field it would have been simply a matter for careful riding. But here, at the speed to which the pace had been forced, it was dangerous.
‘Why don’t they pull off there?’ muttered Mr. Rockley, virtuously indignant. ‘No one but a madman would go over ground like that as if they were finishing a flat race. That fellow Hamilton is as obstinate as a mule. I know him; he wouldn’t pull off an inch for all the judges of the Supreme Court.’
‘I’m afraid Bob Clarke won’t,’ said John Hampden; ‘that’s the worst of steeplechasing, the fellows will ride so jealous. Well done, The Cid! By Jove! the mare’s down! and—yes—no!—St. Andrew too. Don’t be frightened, anybody,’ as more than one plaintive cry arose from among the carriages on which the ladies stood thickly clustering. ‘Both men up, and no harm done. Hamilton’s away again, but it’s The Cid’s race.’
These hurried observations, made for the benefit of the visibly distressed clientèle of Hamilton, were called forth by the most sensational proceedings which had obtained yet.
As the two rivals came down the slope at the highly improper pace alluded to, they overtook Currency Lass at her fence, which confused that excitable animal. Getting her head from her rider, who had been prudently steadying her across this unpleasant section, with the idea that he would be unaccompanied till he was clear of it, she went at the fence with her usual impetuosity. A gutter threw her out a little; it may be that her wind had failed. It is certain that, taking off too closely to the stiff fence, she struck the top rail with tremendous force, the impetus casting her rolling over on her back into the adjoining paddock, while her rider, fortunately for him, was ‘sent rods and rods ahead of her’ (as a comrade described it), and so saved from being crushed under the fallen horse. The mare rose to her legs trembling and half stunned, glared for one moment at surrounding objects, and then went off at full speed, with flapping stirrups and trailing reins. The Cid had sailed over the fence a yard to the left of her, and was going at his ease, with nothing near him.
Where, then, was St. Andrew? He had also come to grief.