“Why do the men carry those short sticks in their hands?” asked Assunta.
“I believe,” said Mr. Sinclair—for Mr. Carlisle became strangely inattentive—“that the riders are allowed by rule to do all the damage they can with the sticks, which are short, so as to limit somewhat their power; for their aim is to knock each other off the horses.”
“The barbarians!” exclaimed Clara. “Oh! look, see how many are falling back on the third round. It rests with the two now. I bet on the sorrel.”
“And he has won, Clara,” said Assunta.
The whole piazza was now in motion. Shouts greeted the victor, and the defeated retired into obscurity.
“The modern Olympics are finished,” said Mr. Carlisle. “Shall we go?”
As they drove towards home in [pg 345] the red glow of the setting sun, Mr. Carlisle said abruptly:
“Clara, when did you tell me that you and Sinclair intend to make each other miserable?”
“I will not answer such a question, Severn. You are a perfect dog in the manger. You will not marry yourself or let any one else.”
“If you wish to know,” said Mr. Sinclair, “when your sister intends to make me the happiest of men, she has permitted me to hope that the end of September will be the term of my most impatient waiting.”