Ah, gallant little bay! On his back was the offspring of unthinking parents--a pin-head. Perhaps the Evil One had ordained him to the completion of Langdon's villainy with Lauzanne. At the pinch his judgment had flown--he was become an instrument of torture; with whip and spur he was throwing away the race. Each time he raised his arm and lashed, his poor foolish body swayed in the saddle, and The Dutchman was checked.
“Oh, if he would but sit still!” Porter cried, as he watched the equine battle.
The stand mob clamored as though Nero sat there and lions had been loosed in the arena. The strange medley of cries smote on the ears of Allis. How like wild beasts they were, how like wolves! She closed her eyes, for she was weary of the struggle, and listened. Yes, they were wolves leaping at the throat of her father, and joying in the defeat of Lucretia. Deep-throated howls from full-chested wolves: “Come on you, Lauzanne! On, Westley, on! The Bay wins! The Dutchman--The Dutchman for a thousand!”
But the new voice was stilled into nothingness by the shrill, reawakening falsetto. “Go on, Westley! Lauzanne wins--wins--wins!” it seemed to repeat. Allis sank back into her seat. She knew it was all over. The shuffle of many feet hastening madly, the crash of eager heels down the wooden steps, a surging, pushing, as the wolf-pack blocked each passage in its thirstful rush for the gold it had won, told her that the race was over.
No one knew which horse had won. Presently a quiet came over the mob like a lull in a storm. Silently they waited for the winning number to go up.
“I believe it's a dead heat,” said Porter; and Allis noted how calm and restful his voice sounded after the exultant babel of the hoarse-throated watchers.
“Third,” he answered, laconically, schooling his voice to indifference. “I hope it's a dead heat, for if Lauzanne gets the verdict I've got to take him. I don't want him after that run; they made him a present of the race at the start, and he only just squeezed home.”
“Why must you take the horse, father, if you don't want him? I don't understand.”
“I suppose there's no law for it--I said I would, that's all. The whole thing is crooked though; they stole the race from Lucretia and planted me with a dope horse, and hanged if I don't feel like backing out. Let Langdon go before the Stewards about the sale if he dare.”