Delamayn swerved on the path. His trainer
dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another step or two--swerved
again--staggered--lifted his arm to his mouth with a hoarse cry of
rage--fastened his own teeth in his flesh like a wild beast--and fell
senseless on the course.

A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places, mingling
with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood in others--as
their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested race. Not the
inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded by the crowd. In the
midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn on to the grass--with Mr.
Speedwell and the trainer's doctor in attendance on him. At the terrible
moment when the surgeon laid his hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the
spot--a passage being forced for him through the people by his friends
and the police--running the sixteenth and last round of the race.

Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it? Every body
waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon's hand.

The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw over his
face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming to life again--he
had survived the race. The last shout of applause which hailed
Fleetwood's victory rang out as they lifted him from the ground to carry
him to the pavilion. Sir Patrick (admitted at Mr. Speedwell's request)
was the one stranger allowed to pass the door. At the moment when he was
ascending the steps, some one touched his arm. It was Captain Newenden.

"Do the doctors answer for his life?" asked the captain. "I can't get my
niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that."

Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly from the top
of the pavilion steps.

"For the present--yes," he said.

The captain thanked him, and disappeared.

They entered the pavilion. The necessary restorative measures were
taken under Mr. Speedwell's directions. There the conquered athlete lay:
outwardly an inert mass of strength, formidable to look at, even in its
fall; inwardly, a weaker creature, in all that constitutes vital
force, than the fly that buzzed on the window-pane. By slow degrees the
fluttering life came back. The sun was setting; and the evening light
was beginning to fail. Mr. Speedwell beckoned to Perry to follow him
into an unoccupied corner of the room.

"In half an hour or less he will be well enough to be taken home. Where
are his frien