He had not underestimated the time; in a little less than his five minutes the doors at the end of the arena were thrown wide and Werther reappeared.  Behind him came two stalwarts leading between them a rangy monster.  Before the blast of lights and the murmurs of the throng the big stallion reared and flung himself back, and the two who lead him bore down with all their weight on the halter ropes.  He literally walked down the planks into the arena, a strange, half-comical, half-terrible spectacle.  New York burst into applause.  It was a trained horse, of course, but a horse capable of such training was worth applause.

At that roar of sound, vague as the beat of waves along the shore, the stallion lurched down on all fours and leaped ahead, but the two on the halter ropes drove all their weight backward and checked the first plunge.  A bright-coloured scarf waved from a nearby box, and the monster swerved away.  So, twisting, plunging, rearing, he was worked down the arena.  As he came opposite a box in which sat a tall young man in evening clothes the latter rose and shouted:  “Bravo!”

The fury of the stallion, searching on all sides for a vent but distracted from one torment to another, centred suddenly on this slender figure.  He swerved and rushed for the barrier with ears flat back and bloodshot eyes.  There he reared and struck at the wood with his great front hoofs; the boards splintered and shivered under the blows.

As for the youth in the box, he remained quietly erect before this brute rage.  A fleck of red foam fell on the white front of his shirt.  He drew his handkerchief and wiped it calmly away, but a red stain remained.  At the same time the two who led the stallion pulled him back from the barrier and he stood with head high, searching for a more convenient victim.

Deep silence spread over the arena; more hushed and more hushed it grew, as if invisible blankets of soundlessness were dropping down over the stirring masses; men glanced at each other with a vague surmise, knowing that this was no part of the performance.  The whole audience drew forward to the edge of the seats and stared, first at the monstrous horse, and next at the group of men who could “ride anything that walks on four feet and wears a skin.”

Some of the women were already turning away their heads, for this was to be a battle, not a game; but the vast majority of New York merely watched and waited and smiled a slow, stiff-lipped smile.  All the surroundings were changed, the flaring electric lights, the vast roof, the clothes of the multitude, but the throng of white faces was the same as that pale host which looked down from the sides of the Coliseum when the lions were loosed upon their victims.

As for the wild riders from the cattle ranges, they drew into a close group with the ringmaster between them and the gaunt stallion, almost as if the fearless ones were seeking for protection.  But the announcer himself lost his almost invincible sang-froid; in all his matchless vocabulary there were no sounding phrases ready for this occasion, and little Werther strutted in the centre of the great arena, rising to his opportunity.