Her favourite black
horse, broken to her own hand, would have obeyed her; she might have
been able to stop Beatrix's great Hungarian, for her white hands were
as strong as a man's; but the Arab mare was trained only to the touch
of an Arab halter and the deep caress of an Arab voice, and at the
first strain of the cruel French bit she threw up her head, swerved,
caught the steel in her teeth, and shot forward again at twice her
speed. Eleanor tried in vain to wrench the mare's head to one side,
into the shrinking crowd.
The Queen's face turned grey, but her lips were set and her eyes
steady, as she looked death in the face. Behind her, Beatrix's little
gloved hands were like white moths on her steadily jerking bridle, the
Hungarian's terrific stride threw up the sods behind her, and there was
a hopeless, far-away look in her face, almost like a death-smile. Only
the strong dark woman of the South seemed still to have control over
her horse, and he slowly slackened his speed, and fell a little behind
the other two.
In the fearful danger the crowd was silent and breathless, and many men
turned pale as they saw. But none moved.
One second, two seconds, three seconds, and to every second two
strides; the end of three women's lives was counted by the wild hoof-
strokes. The race might last while one could count ten more.
Gilbert Warde had at first tried to press nearer to the King, but he
saw that it was useless, because the latter was already shoulder to
shoulder with the nobles and knights.
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