The silence broke. Like an oncoming billow a low mutter, gradually swelling and rising, went up from the crowd. Mostyn had the impression of two vast waves facing each other, arrested in their onward rush and leaving a clear space between. He felt himself an atom amid a myriad of atoms in a turbulent sea: he had been in the depths, unable to breathe, oppressed by a great weight, but now, as he rose to the surface, the tension was relaxed, the strain broken. He could see, he could hear, he was shouting with the rest, alternately clapping his hands and lifting his hat in the air, yielding himself absolutely to an excitement which was as new to him as it was delightful. Never before had his pulses throbbed so quickly, his nerves felt so completely on the stretch. The horses swept by. It was a fine, a memorable race, a race to live in the annals of great sporting events. There was every excuse for Mostyn's excitement. His was not the only heart to beat quickly that day. Three horses, almost abreast, approached the winning-post. They were Peveril, Black Diamond, and Hipponous; a fourth, Beppo, had dropped a little behind, evidently done. Peveril was not in favour with the crowd; it was mainly for Hipponous that the cry went up. Mostyn yelled the name of Sir Roderick's colt till he was hoarse. "Come on Hipponous! Hip--Hip--Hipponous!" And at the last moment, just as it seemed that Sir Roderick's hopes were to be dashed to the ground, Hipponous made a brave spurt. He was placed between the other two, his flanks just visible behind them. Suddenly these flanks were no longer seen; the three horses appeared a compact mass, a mass of blended and harmonised colour. Mostyn seemed to see the silver and scarlet through a yellow mist, for the sun's rays fell slantingly over the course; they caught the gold, the pink and the mauve which distinguished the jockeys upon Peveril and Black Diamond, as well as the silver and scarlet of Hipponous, blending the whole into a scintillating gold, all the more vivid for the black background of humanity rising tier upon tier to the highest level of the Grand Stand. Which horse, if any, had the lead? It was impossible to say. They flashed past the winning post, a gleaming mass of colour. Three horses, neck to neck as it seemed to the crowd. Which had won? Was it--could it be--a tie for the three of them? There was a note of doubt in the yelling of the mob. "Peveril--no, Black Diamond!" "I tell yer it was 'Ippernous! Wait till the numbers go up!" Beppo and the other horses which had been well in the running, sped by in their turn; then came the stragglers with the favourite, Lochiel, last but one. A groan of derision went up as he passed; it was a bad day for his jockey, who happened to be Martin's chief rival.