Pray for the mauve jacket!" And so he
retreated, smiling.

That was, however, the genuine saddling bell.
For presently, out of some secret confine, bright
gay-coloured figures, on horses as bright, began
to defile among the human flower-pots in the
enclosure. New modern centaurs, so light, so airy,
and striped over with streaks—of yellows, and
pinks, and all the gay colours—seeming actually
varnished like the toy figures in Noah's arks.
Presently the flower-stand began to fill again,
and to grow black, and to rustle and flutter, and
the miscellany inside the paling, with the white
tickets in their hats, to crowd round each gaudy
centaur with admiration. There was a buzz and
a hum as John Hanbury, in pale blue silk, came
along on his great horse. Such a mammoth
steed, mahogany coloured, high, square, with a
chest like a Torso, with a fierce eye, and his
mouth strapped down to his waist. But so
bright, and oiled, and curled, he looked as if he
had stepped out of a boudoir. As he passed, his
wake was marked by a glitter of little white
note-books, and a fresh flutter of leaves.
Approving eyes settled on him. When he got upon
the open ground he swooped away into a full
bold stride, as even as a pendulum. Men with
broad brims awry over their brows worked away
knowingly with pencils.

There was a little procession of the others—
some small, some large, some long, some shy, and
some wild; and each with a gay parti-coloured
puppet on his back. Presently there was another
hum. "Brent's horse!"

A delicate Persian silk mauve jacket, grateful
to the eye, and Fermor looking as light and
small as a boy. But his horse—an iron grey,
close knit, with a heavy secret strength in
quarters, but a quiet unobtrusive beast, as if
walking out to water. Great admiration among
the sloped hats at this power in posse. The
sunlight glinted down, and brought out the rich
tint of the rider's dress: the Manuels caught it
some hundred yards away, and the second
whispered to her sister, with something like a shy
whisper of delight, "There is Captain Fermor."

"How calmly he takes it," said the other
sister, scornfully. "All assumed. All acting!"

Mr. Madden, with a flag in his hand, is beside
Fermor. "Steady is the word," he whispered.
"Recollect, he will run away with you at the
last mile—and let him."

Bell again! Start in some undiscovered
corner. All the figures on the great flower-pot
stand were swaying uneasily—steward in red coat
cracking his whip excitedly to clear away last
few stragglers. A roar and half-leap among the
flower-pots. Thirteen little wooden figures out
of a Noah's ark, a mile away, have been seen to
start, and are spreading out like a fan.

There is a gentle rustle and agitation on the
black flower-pot stand, and every second hand
holds a glass—but a thousand faces are all turned
one way. A few Lilliputian horses may be
seen far off, travelling very slow, and straggling,
and have gone over a very tiny jump, as
might be over a bit of card. But now the
flower-pot stand begins to be agitated: there is
a crescendo hum swelling up into a roar, as from
a thousand shells held to a thousand ears.
Flower-pot stand is giving spasmodic shouts,
hoarsely. "Blue, by——" "No!—red—blue
—red—yellow—blue again!—by—he's down!
—no, up—they're all over!"

They were, in fact, at the stone wall—what
Mr. Madden had called the "beautiful stone
wall"—and were growing into sight, coming on
nearer, magnifying steadily. Great agitation and
flutter in the phaetons, for they knew not what
was doing. But here was the stone wall. Up,
down! up, down! one after the other! Blue
leading, coming into sight with a flash, going
over soft as velvet. Then a flash of red, then of
yellow, then a roar of dismay from the stand, for
two are down together. Roar! reverberation of
shells growing louder, arms tossing, and a sound
of hollow thudding on the ground, as if giants
were having their carpets beat. Every head
turning with a flash, making an inclined plane of
faces, every neck straining, every foot stamping,
every hand clapping, and the train came thundering
by, blue leading, then a streaked yellow, black,
and that mauve jacket, fifth or sixth, at a calm
gallop, his stretches keeping time musically.
This was but the first time round, and they have
swooped away round the corner, and are gone.

They have been thinned down to some seven
or so. A riderless horse, very wild, and with
his own stirrups scourging his flanks, is going
on with the rest. Blue comes to the fence,
and is seen to look behind. Pink over the
first. He has it. No. Yes. Blue next. "That's
the man!" Then Mauve. "Yes," Mr. Madden
shouts, "let him go!" But he has gone. They
are coming with a rush, and Mauve, calm as in a
drawing-room, has shot ahead. The great gaunt
horse is in distress, and blue is using his whip.
Flower-stand is one disordered roar of "Blue
wins! Mauve has it—no—yes—no—yes!" And
here is now the terrible wall at which they are
rushing, as if they wanted to crush through it.

There are wise people who affect to know the
great horse. He will go at a rush on the smooth
ground. Here is the wall. Now! Crash! As
they rise in the air, there is a dust of fallen
stones; and Blue, darting out of the cloud like
thunder, comes pounding in, the ground shaking,
arms working "lifting" his horse. Pink second,
half a dozen lengths behind; and Mauve——

Where was Mauve? Shouts of joy, victory,
execrations, confusion, and a great rush down to
the fatal wall. A mob was already gathered before
this one reached the wall.  Stand back!" Some
who pushed well to the front got a good view,
and helped to drag a shattered rider from under
a shattered horse. "Killed—he must be killed!"
No one can speak as to this for a few moments,
until a surgeon, who is hurrying up, shall
pronounce. "Brent's horse" is lying helpless on
his side, with his great round eye glazing fast,