A furlong from the finish he caught the rearmost of the mares and cut
around them, the dust spurting sidewise. The crowd gasped, for as he
passed the bays it was impossible to judge his speed accurately; and
after the breath of astonishment the cheers broke in a wave. There was a
confusion of emotion in Marianne. A victory for the chestnut would be a
coup for her pocketbook when it came to buying the Coles horses, but it
would be a distinct blow to her pride as a horsewoman. Moreover, there
was that in the stallion which roused instinctive aversion. Hatred for
Cordova sustained him, for there was no muscle in the lean shoulders or
the starved quarters to drive him on at this terrific pace.
In the corner of her vision she saw old Corson, agape, pale with
excitement, swiftly beating out the rhythm of Alcatraz's swinging legs;
and then she looked to Lady Mary. Every stride carried the bay back to
the relentless stallion. Her head had not yet gone up; she was still
stretched out in the true racing form; but there was a roll in her
gallop. Plainly Lady Mary was a very, very tired horse.
She shot in to the final furlong with whip and spur lifting her on,
every stroke brought a quivering response; all that was in her strong
heart was going into this race.
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