The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth gripped the _chaugan_ stick in his right hand and the reins in the other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin. The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead. He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward the _hal_, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to follow its trajectory. But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in position to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared, whirled, and flew in chase. The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans and bounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball, beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached the ball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the _chaugan _stick. The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his right shoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming to congratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as he scanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized he had only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in the center of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ball with his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of the reds. Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuring the players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob, friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of the only certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes seared and his throat choked as he raced after the others--always, it seemed, bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarely acknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ring of his saddle, content merely to stay astride. Give me a quarterdeck any day. The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watched as the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. He snared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcing back toward his own _hal_.