At last the sound of a mortar. The crowd which had been strolling leisurely about the course began to squeeze in under the fence to their places in the box, or scramble, goat-like up the steep tiers of wooden seats. Urged on by the carabinieri, those delightful, self-contained, tweedledum and tweedledee police of Italy, loiterers were soon cleared from the course and way was made for a group of little men, like blue clad gnomes. These, pushing tiny wheelbarrows, swarmed along the roadway. Their job seemed to be to cover with earth any places where the original paving stones might show through. Then again the sound of the mortar. And here they come! First the Ensign Bearer of Siena, with the simple black and white flag of the city. Then the Palace Trumpets, the picturesque long trumpets with their pendent banners carried by youthful pages in jaunty velvet caps, slashed doublet and sleekly silken hose. Then the musicians, all in costume and the crossbowmen with their ancient weapons and at last a group from each _contrada_. In each group a drummer, two flag bearers, a Lord or Captain on horseback in gorgeous armor, of silver, or bronze, or steel beautifully inlaid with gold that glittered in the sunlight. Behind him his squires, his ensign bearers, and on the race horse, the jockey who would ride later, in the race. Slowly the procession passed around the course. Before the judges’ stand, and four times as they circled the square each group paused that the drummers might perform their little rhythm, that the banner bearers might dance their skillful little steps. Cynthia sat enthralled. Almost she had to pinch herself to believe it was real. Glorious in color as an old window of stained glass; silks and velvets, knights in full armor, pages, banners and trumpeters, and at the very end the Palio itself, a great banner drawn in a cart, with the staked flags of the _contrada_ around it. The procession was over. Cynthia sat back and cracked a few nuts and ate them. Just to return to reality for a while, after so much beauty, was a rest and a relief. She had thought so intensely, packed it down so tightly into her memory that no least gesture of it might be forgotten. Even so, she felt as though she would have liked a week of that procession in order to be able to remember it all. Again the mortar. The race was about to start. Ten restive little horses ranged behind a rope, ten jockeys struggling to keep them in line. The sound of the gun. They’re off! Panting, scrambling, hurled against the Dog’s Box, cutting corners, they tore around the course, and the piazza was one vast shout as though from a single throat. Cynthia, on her feet like the rest, stamped and clapped and shouted with the others. The Snail, the little brown Snail was among the leaders. Once around the course. Three times was the extent of the race. And the starting post was in sight again. But one rider was off--which was it?