And so the time had passed until the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn had remained in the Paddock almost to the last minute, and then Royce had hurried him back to the coach. They had remained close to the railings, however, to see the preliminary canter. "I don't fancy the favourite," Royce repeated. "Lochiel may have won the Guineas, but he's got a devilish uncertain temper. He'll either win in a walk or come in with the ruck. But there's a lot of good stuff," he continued, as the horses galloped down the course, followed by the comments of the crowd, "and it promises to be an uncommonly open race." Anthony Royce's prophecy was correct. The race proved an extremely open one, and moreover it was full of surprises, notably the early defeat of the favourite and the prowess of a rank outsider. Lochiel made a bad start and dropped out long before the horses had come into the straight, while Peveril, who had hardly been considered at all and who stood fifty to one in the betting, got away ahead and maintained his lead almost to the finish. At Tattenham Corner Peveril, a lanky, ungainly horse, bestridden by an American jockey who bore the colours of an unpopular financier, was still, though almost imperceptibly, in advance. The jockey, craning forward and sitting almost upon the horse's neck, was making liberal use of his whip. Royce took the field-glasses from Mostyn's unconscious hand. "Peveril, by all that's holy!" he muttered. "A dark horse. Is this one of Isaacson's tricks?" The next moment he was yelling "Hipponous! Come along, Hipponous!" for he had caught the glitter of the silver as Sir Roderick's horse, almost neck to neck with another, swept into view. And now a moment of palpitating silence fell. Four of the horses were almost abreast, and another couple only a few paces behind. Mostyn, standing up upon the coach and straining his eyes, felt his heart thumping against his chest and his knees knocking together because of the thrill that ran down his spine. He wanted to shout, but he, too, was affected by the spell that had fallen upon that great throbbing mass of humanity; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his lips were numb, paralysed. In a few moments he knew that he would lend his voice to the great cry that must go up from the multitude; then would come relief from a strain that was near the breaking point. He had no bet upon the race, save for a couple of shares in a sweepstake that had been organised on the way down; yet, perhaps, none in that vast throng, however interested, however deeply involved, felt the emotion of the moment as keenly as Mostyn Clithero. It was the awakening of a new sensation, the rousing of a new passion, something that had been crushed down and was asserting itself with the greater strength now that it had at last obtained the mastery. It was the love of sport for its own sake; Anthony Royce had seen quite enough of his new friend during the day to realise that.