The furious pace appeared not to interfere with The Cid’s wondrous jumping powers. At the speed he was driven at his fences he must have gone over or through them. He seemed to prefer the former, and cheer after cheer broke the unusual silence as high in air was seen the form of horse and rider, as every fence was crossed but the last, and perhaps the stiffest, a hundred yards from home.
St. Andrew and Bargo were now neck and neck, stride and stride. The indomitable chestnut had begun to roll; the stout but not brilliant Bargo was at his best. As they near the last fence it is evident that The Cid, still coming up with a ‘wet sail,’ is overhauling the pair. The question is, whether St. Andrew is not too near home.
The anxiety of the crowd is intense, the breathless suspense of the friends of the rival stables painful, the fielders are at the acme of excited hope and fear, when St. Andrew and Bargo, closely followed by The Cid, rise at this deciding leap. The chestnut just clears it, with nothing to spare; Bargo, overpaced, strikes heavily, and rolls in the field beyond; Bob Clarke charges the panel on the right like a demon, and, after a deadly neck-and-neck struggle with St. Andrew, who still has fight left, outrides him on the post.
The conclusion of this ‘truly exciting race, covering with glory all concerned therein,’ as the local journal phrased it, was felt to be almost too solemn a matter for the usual hackneyed congratulations. The overwrought emotions of the young ladies rendered a prompt adjournment necessary to side-saddles and vehicles, which, after refreshment supplied to the protagonists, were made ready for the homeward route. Bob Clarke received a congratulatory glance from Christabel Rockley, which no doubt helped to console him, as did such guerdon many a good knight of old, for the dust and dangers of the tourney.
His sister, Mrs. Malahyde, who could hardly have been said either to have seen or enjoyed the thrilling performance, for ‘mamma was lying down crying in the bottom of the dogcart all the time,’ as her little daughter testified, now arranged her bonnet and countenance, and expressed her heartfelt thanks for Bob’s safety.
Charles Hamilton received assurances from the ladies generally, and particularly from his neighbours of The Chase, that his courage and perseverance had been to them astonishing, and beyond all praise; while St. Andrew, beaten only by a head, after all his gallant endeavours to repair ill-luck, was lauded to the skies.
‘Poor dear fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘I wonder if horses ever feel disappointed. He does droop a little, and it was wicked of you to spur him so, Mr. Hamilton. Now that naughty Cid goes swinging his head about as if he was quite proud of himself. How he has been spurred! Dear me!’
‘Yes, and well flogged,’ said one of the Hobart division. ‘Bob said when he baulked behind the hill he could have killed him. However, it will do him good. He took his last fences as if he would never refuse again as long as he lived.’
‘I will just say this, as my calm and deliberate opinion, and I should like to hear any man contradict me,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘that there never was a race better ridden in the colony than Hamilton’s on St. Andrew. If he hadn’t made that mistake at the stony creek he must have had the race easily. His recovering his place was one of the best bits of riding I ever saw.’
‘Oh, of course; but if The Cid hadn’t baulked, he would have come in as he liked. Suppose we get them to run it over again to-morrow as a match for a hundred. I’ll put a tenner on The Cid.’