“You seem confident,” I remarked to Livingstone, later in the evening.  I remember the peculiar expression of his face, though I did not then understand it, as he answered gravely,

“Bella ought to be; for—­she has laid long odds.”

There was great excitement in the neighborhood when the match, and the farmers’ race to follow, became known.  Half the county was assembled on the appointed morning, an off-day with the Pytchley.  Godfrey Parndon was judge, and had picked the ground—­a figure of 8, with 17 fences, large but fair for the most part; the horses were to traverse it twice, missing the brook (16 feet of clear water) the second time.

I wish they were not getting so rare, those purely country meetings, where three wagons with an awning make the grant stand; where there are no ring-men to force the betting and deafen you with their blatant proffers—­“to lay agin any thing in the race;” where the bold yeomen, in full confidence that their favorite will not be “roped,” back their opinions manfully for crowns.

Livingstone’s great local renown, and the reputation of the Axeine for strength and speed (though no one knew how fast he could go), made the betting 5 to 4 on him; but takers were not wanting, calculating on the horse’s truly Satanic temper.  Miss Bellasys, who, with her mother, had arrived at Kerton the night before, laid half a point more—­not in gloves—­on the heavy-weight.

The bell for saddling rang, and the horses came out.  The mare stripped beautifully, as fine as a star—­no wonder her mistress was proud of her; and I think she had, to the full, as many admirers as the Axeine.

The latter was a dark chestnut with a white fetlock, standing full 16 hands (while the mare scarcely topped 15), well ribbed up, with a good sloping shoulder, immense flat hocks, and sinewy thighs; his crest and forehand were like a stallion’s; and, when you looked at his quarters, it was easy to believe what the Revesby stablemen said, “They could shoot a man into the next county.”

He was “orkarder than usual that morning,” the groom remarked; perhaps he did not fancy the crowd without the hounds, for he kept lashing out perpetually, with vicious backward glances from his red eyes.

Then the riders showed:  Livingstone in his own colors, purple and scarlet cap, workmanlike and weather-stained; Forrester in the fresh glories of light blue with white sleeves, his cap quartered with the same.

Charley lingered a minute by Miss Raymond’s side, taking her last instructions, I suppose.  She looked very nervous and pale, her jockey pleasantly languid as ever.