So he had turned back to face the
crowd with those about him, and with the flat of his blade he had
beaten down some few swords which men had dared to draw; but he had
wounded no one, for he knew that it was a madness which must pass and
must be forgiven.
Then he found himself with his horse on the very edge of the open track
made by the dividing people, and he looked and saw the Queen, and
Beatrix three or four lengths behind her, as the matchless Arab gained
ground in the race. He had been above the deep fall and understood.
Instantly he was on his feet on the turf, a step out in the perilous
way; and he wished that he had the strength of Lancelot in his hands,
with the leap of a wild beast in his feet, but his heart did not fail
him.
In one second he lived an hour. His life was nothing, but he could only
give it once, to save one woman, and she must be Beatrix, let such
chance befall Eleanor as might. Yet Eleanor was the Queen, and she had
been kind to him, and in the fateful instant of doom his eyes were on
her face; he would try to save the other, but unconsciously he made one
step forward again and stood waiting in midway. One second for a
lifetime's thought, one for the step he made, and the next was the
last. He could hear the rush of the wind, and Eleanor was looking at
him.
In that supreme moment her face changed, and the desperate calm in her
eyes became desperate fear for him she loved even better than she knew.
"Back!" she cried, and the cry was a woman's agonized scream, not for
herself.
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