Lysbeth saw Van de Werff rise from his seat and throw his weight backward, dragging the grey on to his haunches.

By an inch--not more--the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding.

Indeed, one runner of it struck his hoof, and the high wood work of the side brushed and cut his nostril.
"A foul, a foul!" yelled the skaters, and it was over.

Once more they were speeding forward, but now the black had a lead of at least ten yards, for the grey must find his stride again.

They were in the straight; the course was lined with hundreds of witnesses, and from the throats of every one of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.
"The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!" said the first cry that was answered by another and a deeper roar.
"No, Hollander, the Hollander! The Hollander comes up!" Then in the midst of the fierce excitement--bred of the excitement perhaps--some curious spell fell upon the mind of Lysbeth.