He reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses. "All's safe!" said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the festival--the important St. Leger--arrived. Hundreds were ready to back Highlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he would take any odds--he did take them--he staked his all. "A thousand to five hundred on Highlander against the field," he cried, as he stood near a betting-post. "Done!" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in a barouche by his side. "Done!" cried Fen-wick, "for the double, if you like, my lord." "Done!" added the peer; "and I'll treble it if you dare!" "Done!" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of the moment--"Done! my lord." The eventful hour arrived. There was not a false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led the way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the rails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen. His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight. "The tartan yet! the tartan yet!" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his eyes--he was blind with anxiety--he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of "The tartan! the tartan!" and his heart sprang to his mouth. "Well done, orange!--the orange will have it!" was the next cry. He again looked up, but he was more blind than before. "Beautiful!--beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!" shouted the spectators; "a noble race!--neck and neck; six to five on the orange!" He became almost deaf as well as blind. "Now for it!--now for it!--it won't do, tartan!--hurrah!--hurrah!--orange has it!" "Liar!" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next him by the throat--"I am not ruined!"--In a moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. "Eleanor!--my poor Eleanor!" cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post--he was left alone. The peer with whom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with his whip--"Well, my covey," said the nobleman, "you have lost it." Fen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and repeated--"Lost it!--I am ruined--soul and body!--wife and children ruined!"