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!"
"I'll take--"
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.
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