with their race-glasses ready,
and their habitual expression of gentle and resigned weariness in nowise
altered, because the Household, all in all, had from sixty to seventy
thousand on the event, and the Seraph murmured mournfully to his
cheroot, "That chestnut's no end _fit_," strong as his faith was in the
champion of the Brigades.

A moment's good start was caught--the flag dropped--off they went,
sweeping out for the first second like a line of cavalry about to
charge.

Another moment, and they were scattered over the first field, Forest
King, Wild Geranium, and Bay Regent leading for two lengths, when
Montacute, with his habitual "fast burst," sent Pas de Charge past them
like lightning. The Irish mare gave a rush and got alongside of him; the
King would have done the same, but Cecil checked him, and kept him in
that cool swinging canter which covered the grassland so lightly; Bay
Regent's vast thundering stride was Olympian, but Jimmy Delmar saw his
worst foe in the "Guards' crack," and waited on him warily, riding
superbly himself.

The first fence disposed of half the field, they crossed the second in
the same order, Wild Geranium racing neck to neck with Pas de Charge;
the King was all athirst to join the duello, but his owner kept him
gently back, saving his pace and lifting him over the jumps as easily as
a lapwing. The second fence proved a cropper to several, some awkward
falls took place over it, and tailing commenced; after the third field,
which was heavy plough, all knocked off but eight, and the real struggle
began in sharp earnest: a good dozen who had shown a splendid stride
over the grass being done up by the terrible work on the clods.

The five favourites had it all to themselves; Day Star pounding onward
at tremendous speed, Pas de Charge giving slight symptoms of distress
owing to the madness of his first burst, the Irish mare literally flying
ahead of him, Forest King and the chestnut waiting on one another.

In the Grand Stand the Seraph's eyes strained after the Scarlet and
White, and he muttered in his moustaches, "Ye gods, what's up? The
world's coming to an end!--Beauty's turned cautious!"

Cautious, indeed,--with that giant of Pytchley fame running neck to neck
by him; cautious,--with two-thirds of the course unrun, and all the
yawners yet to come; cautious,--with the blood of Forest King lashing to
boiling heat, and the wondrous greyhound stride stretching out faster
and faster