But,--bruised, bleeding and torn, all mud from heel to head, and with a numbness in his brain Barnabas rides, stooped low in the saddle, for he is sick and very faint. His hat is gone, and the cool wind in his hair revives him somewhat, but the numbness remains. Yet it is as one in a dream that he finds his stirrups, and is vaguely conscious of voices about him--a thudding of hoofs and the creak of leather. As one in a dream he lifts "The Terror" to a fence that vanishes and gives place to a hedge which in turn is gone, or is magically transfigured into an ugly wall. And, still as one in a dream, he is thereafter aware of cries and shouting, and knows that horses are galloping beside him--riderless. But on and ever on races the great, black horse--head stretched out, ears laid back, iron hoofs pounding--on and on, over hedge and ditch and wall--over fence and brook--past blown and weary stragglers--his long stride unfaltering over ploughland and fallowland, tireless, indomitable--on and ever on until Barnabas can distinguish, at last, the horsemen in front.
Therefore, still as one in a dream, he begins to count them to himself, over and over again. Yet, count how he will, can make them no more than seven all told, and he wonders dully where the rest may be.
Well in advance of the survivors the Viscount is going strong, with Slingsby and the Marquis knee and knee behind; next rides Carnaby with two others, while Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman, brings up the rear. Inch by inch Barnabas gains upon him, draws level and is past, and so "The Terror" once more sees before him Sir Mortimer's galloping gray.
But now--something is wrong in front,--there is a warning yell from the Marquis--up flashes the Captain's long arm, for "Moonraker" has swerved suddenly, unaccountably,--loses his stride, and falls back until he is neck and neck with "The Terror." Thus, still as one in a dream, Barnabas is aware, little by little, that the Viscount's hat and whip are gone, and that he is swaying oddly in the saddle with "Moonraker's" every stride--catches a momentary glimpse of a pale, agonized face, and hears the Viscount speaking:
"No go, Bev!" he pants. "Oh, Bev, I'm done! 'Moonraker's' game, but--I'm--done, Bev--arm, y'know--devilish shame, y'know--"
And Barnabas sees that the Viscount's sleeve is all blood from the elbow down. And in that moment Barnabas casts off the numbness, and his brain clears again.
"Hold on, Dick!" he cries.
"Can't Bev,--I--I'm done. Tried my best--but--I--" Barnabas reaches out suddenly--but is too far off--the Viscount lurches forward, loses his stirrups, sways--and "Moonraker" gallops--riderless. But help is at hand, for Barnabas sees divers rustic onlookers who run forward to lift the Viscount's inanimate form. Therefore he turns him back to the race, and bends all his energies upon this, the last and grimmest part of the struggle; as for "The Terror," he vents a snort of joyful defiance, for now he is galloping again in full view of Sir Mortimer Carnaby's foam-flecked gray.
And now--it's hey! for the rush and tear of wind through the hair! for the muffled thunder of galloping hoofs! for the long, racing stride, the creak of leather! Hey! for the sob and pant and strain of the conflict!
Inch by inch the great, black horse creeps up, but Carnaby sees him coming, and the gray leaps forward under his goading heels,--is up level with Slingsby and the Marquis,--but with "The Terror" always close behind.
Over a hedge,--across a ditch,--and down a slope they race together, --knees in, heads low,--to where, at the bottom, is a wall. An ancient, mossy wall it is, yet hideous for all that, an almost impossible jump, except in one place, a gap so narrow that but one may take it at a time. And who shall be first? The Marquis is losing ground rapidly--a foot--a yard--six! and losing still, races now a yard behind Barnabas. Thus, two by two, they thunder down upon the gap that is but wide enough for one. Slingsby is plying his whip, Carnaby is rowelling savagely, yet, neck and neck, the sorrel and the gray race for the jump, with Barnabas and the Marquis behind.
"Give way, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"Be damned if I do!" roars the Captain, and in go his spurs.
"Pull over, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"No, b'gad! Pull over yourself," roars the Captain. "Give way, Carnaby--I have you by a head!"
An exultant yell from Slingsby,--a savage shout from Sir Mortimer--a sudden, crunching thud, and the gallant sorrel is lying a twisted, kicking heap, with Captain Slingsby pinned beneath.
"What, Beverley!" he cries, coming weakly to his elbow, "well ridden, b'gad! After him! The 'Rascal' 's done for, poor devil! So am I, --it's you or Carnaby now--ride, Beverley, ride!" And so, as Barnabas flashes past and over him, Captain Slingsby of the Guards sinks back, and lies very white and still.
A stake-fence, a hedge, a ditch, and beyond that a clear stretch to the winning-post.
At the fence, Carnaby sees "The Terror's" black head some six yards behind; at the hedge, Barnabas has lessened the six to three; and at the ditch once again the great, black horse gallops half a length behind the powerful gray. And now, louder and louder, shouts come down the wind!
"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'! 'Clasher'!"
But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure, grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?
Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing, spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and uncertainty.
Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner could possess.
"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley! Beverley--hurrah!"
Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by inches--by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his hand.
"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!--I caught Carnaby--at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for--my cravat--" But here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream, he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd--that he is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.
"Well ridden, sir!" says the gentleman. "Couldn't have done it better myself, no, by Gad I couldn't--could I, Sherry?"
"No, George, by George you couldn't!" answered a voice.
"Must take a run down to Brighton, Mr.--Mr.--ah, yes--Beverley. Show you some sport at Brighton, sir. A magnificent race, --congratulate you, sir. Must see more of you!"
Then, still as one in a dream, Barnabas bows again, sees Martin at "The Terror's" bridle, and is led back, through a pushing, jostling throng all eager to behold the winner, and thus, presently finds himself once more in the quiet of the paddock behind the "White Hart" inn.