her swaying back with the whip for a
final burst of speed, he loved the beast as only a horseman can, and
murmured terms of endearment that were equally applicable to a
sweetheart.

The head of Cobbens's horse was just in a line with Emmet's shoulder as
they passed the goal. The mayor turned while the other began to drop
behind and shouted a derisive farewell, with a parting flourish of the
whip. The victory was as sweet to his heart as the taste of honey to
the lips. The race had changed his mood completely, filling him with a
joyous truculence. He would gladly have embraced the opportunity of a
rough knock-down and drag-out fight with a picked champion from the
enemy's camp.

As he passed along the eastern border of the campus and glanced up at
St. George's Hall, it no longer appeared the impregnable fortress of
privilege he had once thought it. Yet, in reality, the towers of the
college had never looked more formidable. Rising magnificently at the
crest of a bleak expanse of snow, the embrasured battlements,
silhouetted against the sunset sky, might well have suggested to a
beholder grim thoughts of mediaeval strongholds and robber barons. The
red orb of the sun, hovering just above the rim of the western hills,
flashed successively through the windows of the long, low hall, like a
running trail of fire. Emmet was directly opposite the towers when he
saw the muzzle of the telescope rise slowly above the topmost line of
coping, as if it were a living thing stretching itself to take a look
at the surrounding country. Evidently Professor Leigh was preparing
the instrument for an observation. Emmet pictured the platform heaped
with snow, imagined the cold air rushing into the small shed through
the open roof, and wondered that his friend's enthusiasm could brave
such discomforts to win a knowledge so remote from the interests of
life.

He turned his eyes once more to the road and winked away the glare of
the sun. The floating spots, changing from crimson to green and from
green to purple, so obscured his vision that he failed to see the
figure of a woman plodding slowly on in the centre of the track. The
wind was directly ahead, and the hood of a golf cape so closely
enveloped the woman's head that she for her part was deaf to the sound
of coming sleighbells. Emmet had been driving slowly to give his mare
a breathing-space. Now, as she veered suddenly of her own accord, he
drew in the reins with a jerk,