At the same instant the great Hungarian horse was upon her,
tried to leap her in his stride, struck her empty saddle with his brown
chest, and fell against her and upon her with all his enormous weight,
and the two rolled over each other, frantically kicking. The standard
bearer's horse, less mad than the others and some lengths behind,
checked himself cleverly, and after two or three short, violent
strides, that almost unseated his rider, planted his fore feet in the
turf and stood stock-still, heaving and trembling. The race was over.
With the strength and instinct of the born rider, Eleanor had slipped
her feet from the stirrups and had let herself be thrown, lifting
herself with her hands on the high pommel and vaulting clear away. She
fell, but was on her feet before any man of the dazed throng could help
her. She saw Gilbert lying his full length on his side, his body
passive, but his arms stretched beyond his head, while his gloved hands
still clenched upon the bridle and were pulled from side to side by the
mare's faintly struggling head. His eyes were half open toward the
Queen, but they were pale and saw nothing. The Hungarian had rolled
half upon his back, little hurt, and the pommels of the saddle under
him kept him from turning completely over.
Beatrix lay like one dead. She had been thrown over the Arab's back,
striking her head on the turf, and the mare in her final struggle had
rolled upon her feet. The light steel cap had been forced down over her
forehead in spite of its cushioned lining, and the chiselled rim had
cut into the flesh so that a little line of dark blood was slowly
running across the white skin; and her white gloved hands were lying
palm upward, half open and motionless.
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