Master Walter draws a long breath, for this is a reprieve, and endeavours once more to fix his eyes upon the dancing horses; but it is the retina of the mind only which presents its image. He beholds his mother's face, paler and more careworn than ever, sharpened with pain, through something which she has learned since---- “They're off! they're off!” is again the cry; and this time the great plane of faces shifts and flashes as it follows the speck of colour now in rapid motion--at first, a double line, next a lengthening oval, and then a string of brilliants, knotted here and there. As they approach Tatten-ham Corner, Walter perceives, for the first time, that they are horses, and that three are leading all the rest--Green, Black, and Yellow. The chances are then but two to one against him. How they lag and crawl, these vaunted coursers of the air! How long is this frightful suspense to last? “The Yellow's beat--_Mica_ is out of it--the Black wins--the favourite is beaten, blast him!--_Menelaus wins_”----There is a thunder of hoofs, a flash of Black and Green, then a cry such as, even on Epsom Downs, was never before heard. “By Heaven, he's off! The boy is killed! Was it short of the post? What number's up? The Green has won. _The King, The King!_ Hurrah, hurrah!” And so the babblement breaks forth again, and the tumultuous crowd flows in like water upon the fair green course, save one small space of it kept clear by men with staves, where lies a poor whitefaced jockey, senseless and motionless, for whose misfortune everybody is sorry, but especially those who have backed the Black. All had gone well with the French horse until within a few strides of the winning-post; he was leading by half a length, and his victory seemed certain to all eyes, when suddenly--whether through the devilish nature of the beast, or whether poor Sam had touched him with the heel in that overwhelming crisis, can never now be known--but he stopped stock-still, and shot his rider (snatching at his ear as he flew by) a dozen yards like cricket-ball from catapult. The uncelebrated Hicks had actually preceded the rival jockey at the post, but left his horse behind him; and there the beast was standing yet, with his fore-feet planted resolutely before him, and his untwisted ears laid level with his neck, as though he was giving “a hack” at leap-frog. “Come down, and let us get away from this, lad,” broke forth Derrick impatiently: “it is no use waiting here.” “It is no use waiting here,” echoed the young man mechanically, as he followed his friend through the fast-thinning crowd down to the basement story. At the foot of the staircase they met Mr Chifney, looking very white and disconcerted. He, too, had put more trust than he was wont to place in horses in _Menelaus_, and had suffered in consequence; and the wily trainer was not used to losses. “How is the boy?” inquired Derrick.