Skelton was afraid that Lewis would lose his head and go blundering at the hurdles. But he did not; he lifted the horse over them beautifully, a little in advance of Alabaster, who went at them furiously, and knocked them both down. It was neck and neck to the water jump. Both horses were then flying along. Alabaster’s black coat was as wet as if he had been in the river, but Jaybird gave no sign of distress. As they neared the jump, Alabaster increased his stride superbly. It was plain what Jaybird could do, but it was a mystery still how much speed the half-bred horse had. Alabaster rushed at the water jump as if he were about to throw himself headlong into it, and cleared it with a foot to spare; Jaybird followed a moment after. His hind feet slipped as he landed on the other side, and it was a half minute before he recovered his stride. Alabaster was then three lengths ahead, and Hilary was giving him whip and spur mercilessly. Nothing that Jaybird had yet showed could overcome those three lengths at the magnificent rate the black horse was going. The crowd burst into a mighty shout: “Alabaster wins! Alabaster! Alabaster!” Blair experienced one of the most delicious moments of his life then. He turned and looked Skelton squarely in the eye. He said not a word, but the look was eloquent with hatred and triumph. Skelton faced him as quietly as ever. Blair turned his horse’s head; the race was his--Newington was saved--_he_ was saved! “Mr. Blair,” said Skelton, at that instant, in his peculiar musical drawl, and with a smile that showed every one of his white, even teeth, “your boy is down.” Blair glanced towards the track, and the sight seemed to paralyse him. Alabaster was rolling over, struggling violently, with both forelegs broken and hanging. He had slipped upon a muddy spot, and gone down with frightful force. It was terrible to see. Hilary was lying perfectly limp on the ground, some distance away. The people were yelling from sheer excitement, and in a second a crowd had run towards the prostrate horse and boy. Blair found himself, he knew not how, on the spot. Some one shouted to him: “He’s alive--he breathes--he’s coming to!” Before waiting to hear more about Hilary, Blair ran up to the struggling horse, and, with the savage instinct that had seemed to possess him all along regarding the creature, stamped his foot violently a dozen times in its quivering flank. The horse, half dead, sank back and ceased its convulsive efforts, fixing its glazing eyes on Blair with a dumb reproach. Blair, struck with shame and horror and remorse at his action, knelt down on the ground and took the horse’s head in his arms. “My poor beauty!” he cried, “my poor beauty!”