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.