At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on his side.  For a few moments, they ran exactly abreast.  Then Delamayn drew away inch by inch; and recovered the lead.  The first burst of applause (led by the south) rang out, as the big man beat Fleetwood at his own tactics, and headed him at the critical moment when the race was nearly half run.

“It begins to look as if Delamayn was going to win!” said Sir Patrick.

The trainer’s doctor forgot himself.  Infected by the rising excitement of every body about him, he let out the truth.

“Wait a bit!” he said.  “Fleetwood has got directions to let him pass—­Fleetwood is waiting to see what he can do.”

“Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manly sport,” said Mr. Speedwell, quietly.

At the end of the seventh round, Fleetwood proved the doctor to be right.  He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow.  At the end of the eight round, he was leading by two yards.  Half the race had then been run.  Time, ten minutes and thirty-three seconds.

Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little; and Delamayn was in front again.  He kept ahead, until the opening of the eleventh round.  At that point, Fleetwood flung up one hand in the air with a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamayn with a shout of “Hooray for the North!” The shout was echoed by the spectators.  In proportion as the exertion began to tell upon the men, so the excitement steadily rose among the people looking at them.

At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards.  Cries of triumph rose among the adherents of the north, met by counter-cries of defiance from the south.  At the next turn Delamayn resolutely lessened the distance between his antagonist and himself.  At the opening of the fourteenth round, they were coming sid e by side.  A few yards more, and Delamayn was in front again, amidst a roar of applause from the whole public voice.  Yet a few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed him, dropped behind again, led again, and was passed again at the end of the round.  The excitement rose to its highest pitch, as the runners—­gasping for breath; with dark flushed faces, and heaving breasts—­alternately passed and repassed each other.  Oaths were heard now as well as cheers.  Women turned pale and men set their teeth, as the last round but one began.

At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance.  Before six yards more had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose of his running in the previous round, and electrified the whole assembly, by dashing past his antagonist—­for the first time in the race at the top of his speed.  Every body present could see, now, that Delamayn had been allowed to lead on sufferance—­had been dextrously drawn on to put out his whole power—­and had then, and not till then, been seriously deprived of the lead.  He made another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused the public enthusiasm to frenzy.  While the voices were roaring; while the hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; while the actual event of the race was, for one supreme moment, still in doubt—­Mr. Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm.