It was a motley enough throng.  There were Polish ladies and gentlemen in the garb of their caste, which is to-day the same all the world over, though in some parts of Ruthenia and Lithuania one may still come across a Polish gentleman of the old school in his frogged coat and top-boots.  German tradesmen and their families formed here and there one of those domesticated and homely groups which the Fatherland sends out into the world’s trading centres.  And moving amid these, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, the Russian officers, who virtually had the management of the course—­tall, fair, clean men, with sunburned faces and white skins—­energetic, refined, and strong.  They were mostly in white tunics with gold shoulder-straps, blue breeches, and much gold lace.  Here and there a Cossack officer moved with long, free strides in his dressing-gown of a coat, heavily ornamented with silver, carrying high his astrakhan cap, and looking round him with dark eyes that had a gleam of something wild and untamed in them.  It was a meeting-ground of many races, one of the market-places where men may greet each other who come from different hemispheres and yet owe allegiance to one flag:  are sons of the empire which to-day gathers within one ring-fence the north, the south, the east, and the west.

“France amuses me, England commands my respect, but Russia takes my breath away,” said Deulin, elbowing his way through the medley of many races.  On all sides one heard different languages—­German, the sing-song Russian—­the odd, exclamatory tongue which three emperors cannot kill.

“And Germany?” inquired Cartoner, in his low, curt voice.

“Bores me, my friend.”

He was pushing his way gently through into the paddock, where a number of men were congregated, but no ladies.

“The Fatherland,” he added, “the heavy Fatherland!  I killed a German once, when I was in the army of the Loire—­a most painful business.”

He was still shaking his head over this reminiscence when they reached the gateway of the paddock.  He was passing through it when, without turning towards him, he grasped Cartoner’s arm.

“Look!” he said, “look!”

There was a sudden commotion in the well-dressed crowd in the paddock, and above the gray coats and glossy hats the tossing colors of a jockey.  The head of a startled horse and two gleaming shoes appeared above the heads of men for a moment.  A horse had broken away with its jockey only half in the saddle.

The throng divided, and dispersed in either direction like sheep before a dog—­all except one man, who, walking with two sticks, could not move above a snail’s pace.

Then, because they were both quick men, with the instincts and a long practice of action in moments calling for a rapid decision, Deulin and Cartoner ran forward.  But they could not save the catastrophe which they knew was imminent.  The horse advanced with long, wild strides, and knocked the crippled old man over as if he were a ninepin.  He came on at a gallop now, the jockey leaning forward and trying to catch a broken bridle, his two stirrups flying, his cap off.  The little man was swearing in English.  And he had need to, for through the paddock gate the crowd was densely packed and he was charging into it on a maddened horse beyond control.