The winning-post is approached. The old horse has not been touched by Fortescue, whose face is seen, even at that distance, to be deluged with blood. He holds Screwdriver well in hand; he sees the mare is flagging.
"Green wins!" "Red wins!" shouts the crowd.
It is an anxious moment. Both horses are seen locked closely together. But the strain on Screwdriver's jaw is relaxed, and Fortescue is seen to shake him up; the whip hand is at work, and they pass the post abreast. The Colonel dashes off, as does the sly little man, and a host of others.
"What is it?" said the Colonel, as he galloped up.
"A dead heat," replied the judge.
The sly little man smiles grimly as he hears these words.
"Is Charles hurt, papa?" said the beautiful occupant of the Master of Gwynne's carriage, opening her eyes languidly, as she rose from her faint.
"No, dearest; cut a little, I believe. It is a dead heat."
Both horses were now returning to scale.
"Dead heat?" said the Captain. "Well, we must run it off in an hour. I won't give in."