“Take care, brother,” it cried, “he will overthrow us.”

True enough, in another moment the black would have struck the grey sideways.  Lysbeth saw Van de Werff rise from his seat and throw his weight backward, dragging the grey on to his haunches.  By an inch—­not more—­the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding.  Indeed, one runner of it struck his hoof, and the high wood work of the side brushed and cut his nostril.

“A foul, a foul!” yelled the skaters, and it was over.  Once more they were speeding forward, but now the black had a lead of at least ten yards, for the grey must find his stride again.  They were in the straight; the course was lined with hundreds of witnesses, and from the throats of every one of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.

“The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!” said the first cry that was answered by another and a deeper roar.

“No, Hollander, the Hollander!  The Hollander comes up!”

Then in the midst of the fierce excitement—­bred of the excitement perhaps—­some curious spell fell upon the mind of Lysbeth.  The race, its details, its objects, its surroundings faded away; these physical things were gone, and in place of them was present a dream, a spiritual interpretation such as the omens and influences of the times she lived in might well inspire.  What did she seem to see?

She saw the Spaniard and the Hollander striving for victory, but not a victory of horses.  She saw the black Spanish Wolf, at first triumphant, outmatch the Netherland Badger.  Still, the Badger, the dogged Dutch badger, held on.

Who would win?  The fierce beast or the patient beast?  Who would be the master in this fight?  There was death in it.  Look, the whole snow was red, the roofs of Leyden were red, and red the heavens; in the deep hues of the sunset they seemed bathed in blood, while about her the shouts of the backers and factions transformed themselves into a fierce cry as of battling peoples.  All voices mingled in that cry—­voices of hope, of agony, and of despair; but she could not interpret them.  Something told her that the interpretation and the issue were in the mind of God alone.

Perhaps she swooned, perhaps she slept and dreamed this dream; perhaps the sharp rushing air overcame her.  At the least Lysbeth’s eyes closed and her mind gave way.  When they opened and it returned again their sledge was rushing past the winning post.  But in front of it travelled another sledge, drawn by a gaunt grey horse, which galloped so hard that its belly seemed to lie upon the ice, a horse driven by a young man whose face was set like steel and whose lips were as the lips of a trap.

Could that be the face of her cousin Pieter van de Werff, and, if so, what passion had stamped that strange seal thereon?  She turned herself in her seat and looked at him who drove her.

Was this a man, or was it a spirit escaped from doom?  Blessed Mother of Christ! what a countenance!  The eyeballs starting and upturned, nothing but the white of them to be seen; the lips curled, and, between, two lines of shining fangs; the lifted points of the mustachios touching the high cheekbones.  No—­no, it was neither a spirit nor a man, she knew now what it was; it was the very type and incarnation of the Spanish Wolf.