Dada spoke no more; pale and gasping, she sat with her eyes fixed on the tall obelisk and on the cloud of dust which, as the chariots neared the nyssa, seemed to grow denser.  At about a hundred paces from the nyssa she saw, above the sandy curtain, the red cap of Hippias flash past, and then—­close behind it—­the blue cap worn by Marcus.  Then a deafening, thundering roar from thousands of throats went up to heaven, while, round the obelisk—­so close to it that not a horse, not a wheel could have found room between the plinth and the driver-the blue cap came forward out of the cloud, and, behind it now—­no longer in front, though not more than a length behind—­came the red cap of Hippias.  When within a few feet of the nyssa, Marcus had overtaken his antagonist, had passed the point with a bold and perilously close turn, and had left the bays behind him.

Demetrius saw it all, as though his eye had power to pierce the dust-cloud, and now he, too, lost his phlegmatic calm.  He threw up his arms as if in prayer and shouted, as though his brother could hear him: 

“Well done, splendid boy!  Now for the kentron—­the goad—­drive it in, send it home if they die for it!  Give it them well!”

Dada, who could only guess what was happening, looked round at him, asking in tremulous tones:  “Has he passed him?  Is he gaining on him?  Will he win?” But Demetrius did not answer; he only pointed to the foremost of the flying clouds on which the second was fast advancing, and cried in a frenzy of excitement: 

“Death and Hades!  The other is catching him up.  The dog, the sneak!  If only the boy would use his goad.  Give it them, Marcus!  Give it them, lad!  Never give in now!  Great Father Poseidon!—­there—­there!—­no!  I can hardly stand—­Yes, he is still in front, and now—­now—­this must settle it!  Thunder and lightning!  They are close together again—­may the dust choke him!  No—­it is all right; my Arabs are in front!  All is well, keep it up, lad, well done!  We have won!”

The horses were pulled up, the dust settled; Marcus, the Christian, had won the first missus.  Cynegius held out the crown to the victor, who bowed to receive it.  Then he waved his hand to his mother, who graciously waved hers in return, and he drove into the oppidurn and was lost to sight.

Hippias flung down his whip in a rage, but the triumphant shouts of the Christians drowned the music, the trumpet-blasts and the angry murmurs of the defeated heathen.  Threatening fists were shaken in the air, while behind the carceres the drivers and owners of the red party scolded, squabbled and stormed; and Hippias, who by his audacious swagger had given away the race to their hated foe—­to the Blues, the Christians—­ narrowly escaped being torn in pieces.

The tumult and excitement were unparalleled; but Dada saw and heard nothing.  She sat in a blissful dream, gazing into her lap, while tears of joyful reaction rolled down her cheeks.  Demetrius saw her tears and was glad; then, pointing out Mary to the girl, he in formed her that she was the mother of Marcus.  And he registered a secret vow that, cost what it might, he would bring his victorious brother and this sweet child together.