About thirty of the very finest horses in the world, decorated, and ridden by small, light jockeys in parti-colored suits and fancy caps, came on in procession and trotted around the course. Some three years ago these horses “the cream of the cream” of the horse nobility, had been bred and born to order, and from that time trained for this Derby—a most careful and costly preparation of three years for a trial that would be decided in half an hour. No wonder at the breathless interest they excited even among those who had no stake in the race. Involuntary exclamations of admiration and delight burst from the ladies of our party. “What beautiful creatures!” cried Anna. “Pity they can’t _all_ win,” added Drusilla. The train of horses trotted out of their range of vision, and disappeared from view on another section of the circle. “Is there time to lunch before the great race?” inquired Dick, with a hungry glance at the hampers. “No, sir; they start in fifteen minutes,” answered Tredegar. Those fifteen minutes passed in silent waiting. Fortune-telling, small-trading, ballad-singing, eating and drinking—all were suspended until the trial upon which such immense stakes were laid should be over. It was a holiday,—a festival; yet the hush that preceded the great event of the day, was like the awful pause before an execution. “At length the spell was broken. The word went forth: “They’re starting!” Three hundred thousand people were on their feet in an instant. “They’re coming!” Field-glasses were raised and necks were stretched, and eyes were strained. “Here they are! Here they are!” Yes, here they are. The flying train of meteors flashing past! They are gone while we look! Unaccustomed eyes cannot trace their flight, or distinguish one horse from another in the lightning-like passage. A moment more and the goal is won! By whom? It is not certainly known to the crowd just yet. They say: “Lightfoot!” “Wing!” “Wonder!” No, none of these. The number flies up on the winning post: Number Seven! And a thousand voices cry out: “Fairy Queen!” Yes, the favorite has won the race; and Mr. Chisholm Cheke has made his fortune. Some few others have won much money, and many have lost, and some are ruined. Do not look towards the Grand Stand. The haggard faces of those ruined gamesters will haunt your dreams to your life’s end. It was wonderful how soon after the great act of this drama has been performed that the uncompromised crowd subsided into comparative calmness, and betook themselves again to their outside amusements—their small trading, fortune-telling, ballad-singing, et cetera, while waiting for the next race. General Lyon ordered up his hampers, and his party had luncheon. After they had finished, the fragments of their feast were distributed to the little beggars that thronged around their carriage-wheels. At four o’clock our party left the ground to return to London.