"But," he cried, "they'll come back, for they've gone such a burst That they'll all soon be panting, in need to be nursed, They will surely come back, but to wait till they do, Lord, it's hell to the waiter, it cuts a man through." Then into his mind came the Avalon case, When a man, left at post, without hope of a place, First had suffered in patience, then had wormed his way up, Then had come with fine judgment, and just won the Cup. Hoofs thundered behind him, the Cimmeroon caught him, His man cursing Thankful and the sire who wrought him. "Did you see that brown devil?" he cried as he passed; "He carried me out, but I'll never be last. Just the wrong side the water the brute gave a swerve, And he carried me out, half across the course-curve. Look, he's cut right across now, we'll meet him again. Well, I hope someone knocks him and kicks out his brain. Well, I'll never be last, though I can't win the Cup. No sense lolling here, man, you'd better pull up." Then he roused Cimmeroon, and was off like a swallow. Charles watched, sick at heart, with a longing to follow. "Better follow," he thought, "for he knows more than I, Since he rode here before, and it's wiser to try: Would my horse had but wings, would his feet would but lift; Would we spun on this speedway as wind spins the drift. There they go out of sight, over fence, to the Turn; They are going still harder, they leave me astern. They will never come back, I am lost past recall." So he cried for a comfort and only gat gall. In the glittering branches of the world without end, Were the spirits, Em's Helper and Charles Cothill's Friend, And the Force of Right Royal with a crinier of flame There they breathed the bright glory till the summoning came. From the Stand where Em watched, from the field where Charles rode, From the mud where Right Royal in solitude strode, Came the call of three spirits to the spirits that guard, Crying, "Up now, and help him, for the danger bears hard." There they looked, those immortals, from the boughs dropping balm, But their powers were stirred not, and their grave brows were calm, For they said, "He's despairing and the horse is still vext." Charles cleared Channing's Blackthorn and strode to the next. The next was the Turn in a bogland of rushes; There the springs of still water were trampled to slushes; The peewits lamented, flapping down, flagging far, The riders dared deathwards each trusting his star. The mud made them slither, the turn made them close, The stirrup steels clinked as they thrust in their toes, The brown horse Exception was struck as he rose, Struck to earth by the Rocket, then kicked by the grey, Then Thunderbolt smote him and rolled him astray.