Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in every movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute young face, the man of the north won the women’s hearts at starting.  The murmur of eager talk rose among them on all sides.  The men were quieter—­especially the men who understood the subject.  It was a serious question with these experts whether Fleetwood was not “a little too fine.”  Superbly trained, it was admitted—­but, possibly, a little over-trained for a four-mile race.

The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends and backers, and by his trainer.  This last carried a tin can in his hand.  “Cold water,” the umpire explained.  “If he gets exhausted, his trainer will pick him up with a dash of it as he goes by.”

A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena.  Delamayn, champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors, presented himself to the public view.

The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked into the centre of the great green space.  Surprise at the extraordinary contrast between the two men was the prevalent emotion of the moment.  Geoffrey was more than a head taller than his antagonist, and broader in full proportion.  The women who had been charmed with the easy gait and confident smile of Fleetwood, were all more or less painfully impressed by the sullen strength of the southern man, as he passed before them slowly, with his head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause showered on him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to nobody; concentrated in himself; biding his time.  He held the men who understood the subject breathless with interest.  There it was! the famous “staying power” that was to endure in the last terrible half-mile of the race, when the nimble and jaunty Fleetwood was run off his legs.  Whispers had been spread abroad hinting at something which had gone wrong with Delamayn in his training.  And now that all eyes could judge him, his appearance suggested criticism in some quarters.  It was exactly the opposite of the criticism passed on his antagonist.  The doubt as to Delamayn was whether he had been sufficiently trained.  Still the solid strength of the man, the slow, panther-like smoothness of his movements—­and, above all, his great reputation in the world of muscle and sport—­had their effect.  The betting which, with occasional fluctuations, had held steadily in his favor thus far, held, now that he was publicly seen, steadily in his favor still.

“Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for a four-mile race.”

“Do you think he sees us?” whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon.

“He sees nobody.”

“Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?”

“He has twice the muscular strength of the other man.  His trunk and limbs are magnificent.  It is useless to ask me more than that about his condition.  We are too far from him to see his face plainly.”