Just as the words were finished a great shout of ‘St. Andrew wins, Benmohr for ever!’ arose from the country people as one horse was seen coming down the long, green slope. On the rider could plainly be discovered the blue and golden colours of Charles Hamilton.
‘Baulked, by Jove! the sidling fence was too much for him; thought Bob was sending him along too fast. Deuced uncertain brute; not the real thing; never could stay; nothing like the old Whisker and Camerton strain. Here comes Bargo! By Jove! Hurrah!’
Such comments and condemnations were freely expressed as St. Andrew came sailing along. The concluding cheer, however, was evoked by the apparition of a second horse which followed St. Andrew with a flogging rider, who was evidently making his effort. It immediately became apparent that this was Bargo, whom his rider was ‘setting to with,’ believing that the tremendous pace which St. Andrew had sustained for the last part of the race must now tell upon him. Where, then, was The Cid? Where, indeed? His admirers were dumb; his opponents jubilant. It is the way of the world.
‘Where’s your seven to four now, Mr. Hampden?’ said the youthful partisan.
‘Possibly quite safe; never be quite certain till the numbers are up. Here comes The Cid at last; Bob’s not beaten yet.’
Another sustained shout from the excited crowd showed what a new element of interest this apparition of the lost horseman had added to the race. Bargo, carefully saved, and comparatively fresh, sorely pressed the gallant St. Andrew, whose bolt was nearly shot. Still, struggling gamely to keep his lead, and well held together, he had crossed the third fence from home before he was challenged by Bargo.
But down the hill, at an awful pace, ridden with the desperation of a madman, came The Cid. Bob Clarke, with cap off and reckless use of whip and spur, could not have increased the pace by one single stride had he been going for a man’s life. Had a doomed criminal been standing on the scaffold, ready for the headsman’s axe, did the reprieve of the old romances not be displayed in time, not another second could The Cid have achieved.
‘He’ll do it yet if they’re not too close at the last fence,’ said Hampden, with his usual calmness. ‘I never knew The Cid baulk twice in one race, and he has a terrible turn of speed for a short finish. Bob’s in earnest, I should say.’
That fact was doubted by none who saw him that day. His face was pale; his eyes blazed with a flame which few had ever seen who looked upon the handsome features and pleasant smile of Robert Clarke. The excitement became tremendous. The ladies made emotional remarks—some of pity for his disappointment, some of sympathy with his probable hurts, if he had had a fall. All joined in reprobating the unlucky Cid.
Christabel Rockley alone said no word, but her fixed eyes and pale cheek showed the absorbing interest which the dangerous contest, now deepening to a possible tragedy, had for her.