With a refinement of perfidy, the Contessa di Lucoli repeated it to Donna Ippolita.
The latter gave no sign of inward perturbation.

'I am sorry to hear that,' was her only comment, 'I thought they were friends.' The crowd surged round the bookmakers.

_Miching Mallecho_, the horse of the Conte d'Ugenta, and _Brummel_, that of the Marchese Rutolo, were the favourites; then came the Duke di Beffi's _Satirist_ and Caligaro's _Carbonilla_.

However, the best judges had not overmuch confidence in the two first, thinking that the nervous excitement of their riders must inevitably tell upon the racing.
But Andrea Sperelli was perfectly calm, not to say gay.
His sense of superiority over his rival gave him assurance; moreover, his romantic taste for any adventure savouring of peril, inherited from his Byronic father, shed a halo of glory round the situation, and all the inborn generosity of his young blood awoke at the prospect of danger.
With a beating heart, he went forward to meet his horse as to a friend who was bringing him the news of some great good fortune.

He stroked its nose fondly, and the glances of the animal's eye, an eye that flashed with the inextinguishable fire of noblest breeding, intoxicated him like a woman's magnetic gaze.
'Mallecho,' he whispered as he caressed the horse, 'this is a great day--we must win!' His trainer, a little red-faced man, who was engaged in scrutinising the other horses as they were led past by their grooms, answered in his rough husky voice,--'There's no doubt but you will!' Miching Mallecho was a superb bay from the stables of the Baron de Soubeyran, and combined extreme elegance of build with extraordinary strength of muscle.