The dog, the sneak! If only the boy would use his goad.

Give it them, Marcus! Give it them, lad! Never give in now! Great Father Poseidon!--there--there!--no! I can hardly stand--Yes, he is still in front, and now--now--this must settle it! Thunder and lightning! They are close together again--may the dust choke him! No--it is all right; my Arabs are in front! All is well, keep it up, lad, well done! We have won!" The horses were pulled up, the dust settled; Marcus, the Christian, had won the first missus.

Cynegius held out the crown to the victor, who bowed to receive it.

Then he waved his hand to his mother, who graciously waved hers in return, and he drove into the oppidurn and was lost to sight.
Hippias flung down his whip in a rage, but the triumphant shouts of the Christians drowned the music, the trumpet-blasts and the angry murmurs of the defeated heathen.

Threatening fists were shaken in the air, while behind the carceres the drivers and owners of the red party scolded, squabbled and stormed; and Hippias, who by his audacious swagger had given away the race to their hated foe--to the Blues, the Christians--narrowly escaped being torn in pieces.
The tumult and excitement were unparalleled; but Dada saw and heard nothing.