He strained, he panted, he heard the thundering thud of the first flight gaining nearer and nearer upon him; he felt his rivals closing hotter and harder in on him; he felt the steam of his opponent's smoking, foam-dashed withers burn on his own flanks and shoulders; he felt the maddening pressure of a neck-to-neck struggle; he felt what in all his victorious life he had never known--the paralysis of defeat.
The glittering throngs spreading over the plains gazed at him in the sheer stupor of amazement; they saw that the famous English hero was dead-beat as any used-up knacker.
One second more he strove to wrench himself through the throng of the horses, through the headlong crushing press, through--worst foe of all!--the misty darkness curtaining his sight! One second more he tried to wrestle back the old life into his limbs, the unworn power and freshness into nerve and sinew.

Then the darkness fell utterly; the mighty heart failed; he could do no more--and his rider's hand slackened and turned him gently backward; his rider's voice sounded very low and quiet to those who, seeing that every effort was hopeless, surged and clustered round his saddle.
"Something ails the King," said Cecil calmly; "he is fairly knocked off his legs.

Some Vet must look to him; ridden a yard farther he will fall." Words so gently spoken!--yet in the single minute that alone had passed since they had left the Starter's Chair, a lifetime seemed to have been centered, alike to Forest King and to his owner.
The field swept on with a rush, without the favorite; and the Prix de Dames was won by the French bay L'Etoile..