our first horse, is as supple as a panther and I trained her to do it, myself.—­Now, look out there! that bronze figure of a rearing horse—­the ‘Taraxippos’ they call it—­is put there to frighten the horses, and Megaera, our third horse, is like a mad thing sometimes, though she can go like a stag; every time Marcus gets her quietly past the Taraxippos we are nearer to success.—­Look, look,=-the first chariot has got round the nyssa!  It is Hippias!  Yes, by Zeus, he has done it!  He is a detestable braggart, but he knows his business!”

This was one of the decisive moments of the race.  The crowd was silent; expectation was at the utmost pitch of tension, and Dada’s eyes were fixed spell-bound on the obelisk and on the quadrigas that whirled round the bourn.

Next to Hippias came a blue team, and close behind were three red ones.  The Christian who had succeeded in reaching the nyssa second, boldly took his horses close round the obelisk, hoping to gain space and get past Hippias; but the left wheel of his chariot grazed the granite plinth, the light car was overset, and the horses of the red chariot, whose noses were almost on his shoulder, could not be pulled up short in time.  They fell over the Christian’s team which rolled on the ground; the red chariot, too, turned over, and eight snorting beasts lay struggling in the sand.

The horses in the next chariot bolted as they were being driven past this mass of plunging and neighing confusion; they defied their driver’s impotent efforts and galloped across the course back into the caiceres.

The rest had time and space enough to beware of the wreck and to give it a wide berth, among them Marcus.  The melee at the Meta had excited his steeds almost beyond control, and as they tore past the Taraxippos the third horse, Megaera, shied violently as Demetrius had predicted.  She flung herself on one side, thrust her hind quarters under the pole, and kicked desperately, lifting the chariot quite off the ground; the young charioteer lost his footing and slipped.  Dada covered her face with her hands, and his mother turned pale and knit her brows with apprehension.  The youth was still standing; his feet were on the sand of the arena; but he had a firm grip on the right-hand spiral ornament that terminated the bar round the chariot.  Many a heart stood still with anxiety, and shouts of triumph and mockery broke from the red party; but in less than half a minute, by an effort of strength and agility, he had his knees on the foot-board, and then, in the winking of an eye, he was on his feet in the chariot, had gathered up the reins and was rushing onward.

Meanwhile, however, Hippias had far outstripped all the rest, and as he flew past the carceres he checked his pace, snatched a cup from a lemonade-seller, tossed the contents down his throat with haughty audacity amid the plaudits of the crowd, and then dashed on again.  A wide gap, indeed, still lay between him and Marcus.