There, a mile on ahead, was the Stand like a cliff, Grey wood, packed with faces, under banners blown stiff, Where, in two minutes more, they would cheer for him--if-- If he came to those horses still twelve lengths ahead. "O Royal, you do it, or kill me!" he said. They went at the hurdle as though it weren't there, White splinters of hurdle flew up in the air, And down, like a rabbit, went Syringa the mare; Her man somersaulted right under Gavotte, And Syringa went on but her rider did not. But the little Gavotte tucked her feet away clear, Just an inch to one side of the fallen man's ear, With a flash of horse wisdom as she went on the wing Not to tread on man's body, that marvellous thing. As in mill-streams in summer the dark water drifts Petals mown in the hayfield skimmed over by swifts, Petals blue from the speedwell or sweet from the lime, And the fish rise to test them, as they float, for a time, Yet they all loiter sluicewards and are whirled, and then drowned, So the race swept the horses till they glimmered the ground. Charles looked at those horses, and speedily guesst That the roan horse, Red Ember, was one of the best; He was level and easy, not turning a hair, But with power all ready when his rider should care, And he leaped like a lover and his coat still did shine. Charles thought, "He's a wonder, and he's twelve lengths from mine." There were others still in it, according to looks:-- Sir Lopez, and Soyland, and Peterkinooks, Counter Vair and Gavotte, all with plenty to spend; Then Monkery worn, and The Ghost at his end. But the roan horse, Red Ember, seemed playing a game. Charles thought, "He's the winner; he can run us all tame." The wind brought a tune and a faint noise of cheers, Right Royal coquetted and cocked up his ears. Charles saw his horse gaining; the going increased; His touch on the mouth felt the soul of the beast, And the heave of each muscle and the look of his eye Said, "I'll come to those horses, and pass them, or die." Like a thing in a dream the grey buildings drew nearer, The babble rose louder and the organ's whine clearer, The hurdle came closer, he rushed through its top Like a comet in heaven that nothing can stop. Then they strode the green grass for the Lost Lady's grave, And Charles felt Right Royal rise up like a wave, Like a wave far to seaward that lifts in a line And advances to shoreward in a slipping incline, And climbs, and comes toppling, and advances in glory, Mounting inwards, marching onwards, with his shoulders all hoary, Sweeping shorewards with a shouting to burst on the sand, So Right Royal sent meaning through the rein in each hand.