In the outstretch, for the second time, Aramis shot forward like the arrow from a bended bow. He had been running under wraps—now thus far from home, his jockey, the most famous of them all, gave him his head, evidently thinking there would be but one horse in the race. All in a breath two open lengths showed between Aramis and the others; then Aldegonde with a mighty burst lapped the leader’s flank. Tay Ho was right behind—so close his backers set up a breathless shout. The Flower was still last, but strive, strain, stretch as the flying leaders might, they got no further away from her.
Billy flung up his hat, then clapped his hand over his mouth and said, smotheredly:
“See that, Miss Allys! Let her come into the stretch with just one breath more’n those fine fellows, and it’s all over but the cashin’ in.”
“Billy, you’re an angel! I thought we were hopelessly beaten,” Allys breathed rather than said.
Hilary’s mouth set. Adair, watching him narrowly, saw it also whiten when, at the second mile post, the three leaders swept the turn barely heads apart, with the Heathflower thing right on their heels. More than that, she was running strongly, easily, clearly not distressed, although Aramis, still leading, rolled the least bit.
Could that leggy bay really stay the route? Was there any reason for the Wickliffe boy’s unreason? Was there also any chance for him?—there Adair stopped short, smiling a thought grimly to see how all unconsciously, all femininely, Allys drooped to Billy’s upright, youthful strength.
Hilary likewise noted it—with a thumping heart that sent the color surging over his face. Habitually he held himself well in hand—it amazed and angered him to find himself thus swept beyond himself. To all of us come moments when instinct masters reason—the primal masculine instinct of possession told him he would win or lose his quicksilver sweetheart on the issue of this race.
Now she had no thought of him—her eyes were only for the course, where four horses ran like a team as never any of them had run before. All through the first quarter of this fateful last half, they held each other safe, running side by side, stride for stride.
At the furlong pole beyond, Tay Ho’s hooded head for the first time showed in front—only to be instantly eclipsed by the white star of Aldegonde. Aramis began to hang—the angry roar of his backers told he was out of it. Simultaneously, the jockeys sat down to ride—there was the cruel swish of catgut, the crueler prodding of steel. In the crowd a great hushed breath, like the sigh of a forest before the storm, told of tense heartstrings.
Almost instantly the sigh changed to a shouted roar as Tay Ho dropped back level with Aramis, leaving Aldegonde and the Heathflower thing half a length to the good. But next breath the falterers came again—together they held their place, their way, four mighty masses of blood and bone, of breath and fire and stay, fighting it out every inch of the way, with a living sea roaring, shouting, cursing, crying encouragement on either hand.