“Prepare yourself!” he whispered.  “It’s all over.”

As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path.  His trainer dashed water over him.  He rallied, and ran another step or two—­swerved again—­staggered—­lifted his arm to his mouth with a hoarse cry of rage—­fastened his own teeth in his flesh like a wild beast—­and fell senseless on the course.

A Babel of sounds arose.  The cries of alarm in some places, mingling with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood in others—­as their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested race.  Not the inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded by the crowd.  In the midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn on to the grass—­with Mr. Speedwell and the trainer’s doctor in attendance on him.  At the terrible moment when the surgeon laid his hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the spot—­a passage being forced for him through the people by his friends and the police—­running the sixteenth and last round of the race.

Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it?  Every body waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon’s hand.

The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw over his face, for brandy to put into his mouth.  He was coming to life again—­he had survived the race.  The last shout of applause which hailed Fleetwood’s victory rang out as they lifted him from the ground to carry him to the pavilion.  Sir Patrick (admitted at Mr. Speedwell’s request) was the one stranger allowed to pass the door.  At the moment when he was ascending the steps, some one touched his arm.  It was Captain Newenden.

“Do the doctors answer for his life?” asked the captain.  “I can’t get my niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that.”

Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly from the top of the pavilion steps.

“For the present—­yes,” he said.

The captain thanked him, and disappeared.

They entered the pavilion.  The necessary restorative measures were taken under Mr. Speedwell’s directions.  There the conquered athlete lay:  outwardly an inert mass of strength, formidable to look at, even in its fall; inwardly, a weaker creature, in all that constitutes vital force, than the fly that buzzed on the window-pane.  By slow degrees the fluttering life came back.  The sun was setting; and the evening light was beginning to fail.  Mr. Speedwell beckoned to Perry to follow him into an unoccupied corner of the room.

“In half an hour or less he will be well enough to be taken home.  Where are his friends?  He has a brother—­hasn’t he?”

“His brother’s in Scotland, Sir.”

“His father?”

Perry scratched his head.  “From all I hear, Sir, he and his father don’t agree.”

Mr. Speedwell applied to Sir Patrick.

“Do you know any thing of his family affairs?”

“Very little.  I believe what the man has told you to be the truth.”