Princess Metchersky: A Race on the Neva

Princess Metchersky

A Race on the Neva

It was the morning of Epiphany. The intense cold of the preceding night had moderated, but the thermometer still marked fifteen degrees below zero. The sun shone brilliantly in a sky of cloudless blue; the air was like a revivifying elixir. All sounds were brilliant, distinct, penetrating, and every object seemed sharply outlined in the transparent light. The bells of the innumerable churches in St Petersburg were ringing the chimes at full swing.

It is a drawing-room where the sunshine, subdued by green shades filtered through curtains of yellow silk, filling the great apartment with a golden atmosphere, a young woman was walking rapidly to bed. She was above the average height, but slender and graceful, like a gazelle. she wore a long robe of white cashmere whose severe cut brought into sculptural relief the outlines of her superb figure. Her hair of reddish gold rippled in close waves around her temples and forehead, and was gathered in a loose knot at the top of her head. A kind of sweet severity, singularly suggestive of repressed strength, characterised her whole personality. At times she paused in her rapid walk up and down the room, as if thinking deeply, then suddenly resumed her interrupted promenade.

A servant in livery covered with gold brad opened the door and announced: "Captain Répnine"

He had scarcely finished speaking when Alexander Répnine entered, out of breath, exclaiming: "Pardon, my dear Elisaveta, have I kept you waiting?"

And the new arrival, a handsome young man with keen, dark eyes and a silky brown moustache which shaded a smiling mouth, looked at Elisaveta Petrovna, who was taller than him, with an air of anxiety.

She shook her head.

"Ah, so much the better, so much the better, for I had begun to think that I would never get here in time to escort you to the races. Until the last moment I was detained, interrupted by obligations and delayed in my transport. There was a moment in which I scarcely knew where I was. Oh, but the races are going to be superb, I think. Extraordinary! Never in the memory of man has the track been so perfect--so hard and smooth. You will see it for yourself: not a flake of snow on the ice, which is blue and polished like steel. You know how seldom it is so, with that infernal wind that sends drifts of snow blowing from Lake Ladoga. But during the night more than five hundred men have been working on it steadily; for the most famous horses in Russia are going to be engaged. The Imperial stud furnishes several, but the most brilliant, the most miraculous of all will be the three-horse race. Never, never were such superb teams! If you saw them by yourself you would have been unable to compare them to nothing but the coursers of Phaeton. Pardon me, I am really becoming lyrical. But you are not ready: I have noticed that you have not changed your dress."

"Oh, as to that," replied Elisaveta, "I need only my long fur coat, my toque and my gloves. But there is no need to hurry, my dear Alexander. Let us find a seat, sit down and talk for a while. It is only twelve o'clock; we have just finished breakfast—and I imagine that you've just done so. The races begin at one, and it's only a ten minute drive from here to the Neva; we will surely arrive, as you always do, among the first. And besides, I want to ask you something. Some occult influence must have been at work with me, for I don't know why I should think of it precisely right now. Anyway, do you remember Jean Hotzko?"

"How could I forget him? Didn't he disappear in a most mysterious manner—though probably not more mysterious to me than his personality. Was there a human being more absolutely original, and who has left more ineffaceable traces in the memory of all of us who knew him, however feebly? But as for knowing him—who ever really knew him?"

"Oh, that most abused word 'original'. What does it even mean?" asked Veta, sadly, as if interrogating her own thoughts. "What has become of this man?" She continued without listening to the jealous exclamations of her betrothed. "Two years ago he showed up in our world, young, of unknown parentages, unexpected. Fabulously rich, for a whole season he astonished St. Petersburg by his generous and eccentric prodigalities, or, as some people called them, his follies. And his manner, at once so gentle and so haughty--sometimes frozen by impenetrable reserve, then exuberant and emotional, in striking contrast to the conventional correctness of those triflers who only tolerated Hotzko because he was rich. What has become of him, I wonder"

"I do not know, though there were a thousand rumours. He was engaged and compromised in certain political and financial complications, not so much on his own account as to oblige some of his friends, who proved unscrupulous and ungrateful. Hotzko disappeared one day, as you know. His creditors were all paid in full and he discharged all the immense obligations that had accumulated through his inexperience first season in society. His house and all it contained, its numberless objects of art and luxury, were sold. But what distressed him more than all the rest was the sale of his horses. Almost all of his famous racers were bought at shamefully low prices by horse dealers. That is all I really know, and sometimes I wonder if he was just a mirage and I have made him up myself."

II

The Neva, its broad surface frozen and glittering, becomes for seven long months the passive and powerful slave of human industry, like a Titan enchained by some magic charm. During that time it is really a broad carriage-way between the two superb quays of rose-coloured granite which enclose it. Between the quays, on the snowy plain of the benumbed Neva, is laid out a broad ribbon of steel blue, forming an ellipse several versts in circumstance. This is the race-track, hollowed out and swept clen a in the solid ice. Washed with warm water, by dint of unremitting labour, it resembles a mirror of polished crystal-clear glass with the sturdiness of iron. More than a hundred thousand spectators surround this natural arena. Light wooden galleries are built around a third of the enclosure. These are crowded with officers, with rich merchants, with landed proprietors from every zone in Russia, accompanies by their wives. It is a dazzling sea of vivid colours which are somewhat softened by their own variety; the richest silks and velvets are mingled with the glittering uniforms and waving plumes of the offices on special leave for the occasion. In the centre rises a great pavilion, hung with crimson, where are assembled the highest nobility, dignitaries of state, high members of the diplomatic body and the vassal princes of tributary countries, grand dukes and grand duchesses surrounded by their respective courts.

Innumerable people are massed behind the best places. It is a crowd. From this human hive rises and swells an increasing murmur--cries, laughter, oaths, calls to the vendors of kvass, quarrels, songs, the clinking of sabers of the mounted guard, and the echo of hoofs striking the ice; all are confounded in this vast uproar. One by one the light sleights bring more spectators, and in the weighing stand are placed the horses booked for the races. There are superb animals from princely stables, the noblest mares of the Orloff breed, covered with Persian carpets or priceless cashmeres, waiting their turn to enter the arena. At the head of each is a groom wearing a shirt of white or red silk, with a close-fitting caftan of black velvet. The coachmen, in their long coats of fine cloth hemmed and bordered with castor or zibeline and wearing oddly-shaped hats that resemble mitres, sit motionless like painted figures of terracotta, holding their reins of closely twisted silk.

A rosewood sleigh lined with crimson velvet pauses before the peristyle of the principal gallery already crowded with spectators. The president of the races makes his way through a crowd of officers of the guard, the judges and the principal owners of competing horses. He offers his arm to a beautiful woman wearing a long coat of blue fox fur, with a toque of the same pressed down on her red-gold hair. She descends from the sleigh and advances elegantly and calmly. Her tall figure and queenly bearing reveal Elisaveta Petrovna to the spectators. Répnine follows close behind her. Together they ascend the steps covered with velvet moquette carpet. Then the president, after conducting Elisaveta to her place, bows profoundly and retires. Veta's face, under the toque drawn down to her eyebrows, is serious like a studious child, full of sweet impenetrability.

Suddenly a profound silence falls on the crowd. The president hurries to the seat reserved for him and the bell sounds. The gates of the weighing stand are thrown open, and two horses, each harnessed to a tiny sleigh of gilded osier, appear, led by their grooms. They advance, stepping high with proudly arching necks. Their long manes float in the wind, their tails, crimped and waved like a woman's hair, sweep like trains, and are cut squarely across just to clear the ground. At each movement the silky hair undulates and gives to their carefully balanced steps an ir of majesty. Their harness, of lightest leather, and almost imperceptible, is caught together with delicate silver chains. A light arch of some precious wood rises aboe the little heads of the racers. They advance with measured steps, these horses of the Orient, looking from righ to left and neighing as if in acknowledgment ofthe admiration they excite. One is black, a blue-black hue, without a single white spot, ofslight build, with a full, round chest, small, nervous feet, short, straight back--a mignificent scien ofthe famosu trotters reared in the East. The other is Lovki, a stallion bred in the Imperial stables, a pure Orloff, a dappled grey with a white mane that sparkles like spun glass. His nobly moulded flanks and slender legs indicate that his origin is more Arabian than Flemish--the two strains which Prince Orloff crossed so successfully after his victorious military campaign in Turkey. A network of veins runs over his supple body, and from the pointed tips of his little ears to his small, round hoofs that might be carved in polished agate, he quivers with suppressed eagerness.

By the side of the black horse, inscribed on the programme as "L'Aigle", ambles a little fawn-coloured Cossack runner, slim as a greyhound, with high haunches, slender legs and coarse, bristling mane. His ears are laid back, his eye full of fire; all nerve and muscle, he is a prefect type of sturdy ugliness, but he is also one of those animals that will make two hundred vers in twenty-four hours, without failing on the road; those animals which, massed together, have created the finest cavalry in the world, the Cossack legions which were a terror even to Napoleon himself: absolutely incomprable in attack and on long forced marches when the riders need to run or perish. A young Tartar, about fifteen years old, perched on a high saddle, is mounted on this wild specimen of the savage races of the Ukraine. He pulls with all his might at the reins of untanned leather, which are ornamented with plaques of wrought silver and two enormous turquoise talismans. This wild-looking rider carries a short ivory whip with several thongs, the classic Russian knout. This enables him while galloping near the black horse to excite and encourage him in the race.

There is a sudden stir. A bell strikes one brief note, and the horses start simultaneously. At first, swaying from side to side, and measuring. At first, swaying from side to side, and measuring their strength, they seem only to observe. The spectators can even hear the quick breath that escapes from their nostrils in jets of hot vapour, visible in the icy air. The little Tartar, bent forward to his horse's ears, seems to have every sense fixed on the sleigh of L'Aigle, just half a head in front of him. His wild face, yellow with frenzy, breathes the most intense and unconscious ferocity. The horse under him has the exact motion of a hound following a hare. But his easy, restrained gallop it is clear that he is not putting forth a quarter of his strength.

L'Aigle, without precipitating his pace, moves with a certain precision, throwing his hoofs with such force that each time they cleave the air one expects to see them break. At each stride he insensibly covers a longer space on the track. But the gray Orloff, Lovki, with a perfectly measured trot, as if merely playing with his superb and supple body, gains by degrees on his adversary.

That is when the betting begins. A confused noise, gradually growing louder, excites the crowd. It is like the roll of approaching thunder. Money won't stay still in the pockets of many a spectator today.

The Tartar utters a hoarse cry. He lightly touches his horse, which bounds in the air, and L'Aigle, going with the regularity of a machine and a solid power of muscle, reveals to the connoisseurs that the longer the distance, the more favourable are his chances of winning the race. Without raising his head, his sombre eye shaded by his long forelock, he appears perfectly sure of his strength and endurance. In a few minutes he reaches the Orloff, and they run side by side. Then suddenly he rears his ebony head, passes the great stallion with a bound, and is some paces ahead.

Cries rend the air: "L'Aigle--L'Aigle wins! One hundred--two hundred--three hundred roubles on L'Aigle!"

But the coachman of the grey horse shakes his reins, gives a sharp clock of his tongue is off like an arrow shot from a bow, and Lovki rears his head like an angry swan. His hoofs scarcely touch the ice; he swims, he seems to fly, to flat; he reaches his rival, and after some seconds of palpitating struggle, passes him and is in front. The little Tartar becomes not only yellow, but green with rage. He utters cries that are unlike anything human—inarticulate interjections like the bay of a jackal. Nevertheless, L'Aigle, always impassive, pursues his rhythmic course, and follows close behind his rival. Suddenly, at the last minute, only two hundred meres from the end, as if the consciousness of his peril of defeat had just struck him, he breaks into a full trot. There is something miraculous in this sudden and unexpected increase of velocity in an animal so calm and imperturbable. At ten metres from the end they are running neck to neck. At five metres L'Aigle is a length in advance. The Tartar is howling like an orchestra of demons. But in the end Lovki wins by a half-length.

The tumult that ensues is indescribable. The entire crowd to a man seems to be rushing to and invading the track, and surround the conqueror, but of course, the river of people was formed mainly by fans who had earned some or a lot of money by means on their gambling on the right horse. They kiss his forehead, his eyes, his hoofs; they embrace the coachman, who remains impassive during the interminable hurrahs. Finally his groom, with a Persina carpet under his arm, arrives to clear the way for Lovki: and covered with this magnificent housing, which sweeps to the ground, and in which he resembles a palfrey of the Middle Ages, draped in gorgeous and delicate stuffs, Lovki is slowly led away amid the general delirium.

During the race, insensible to all the clamour around her, Veta had remained in her seat, her elbows resting on the railing in front of her. She clasped her lorgnette with both hands, and followed the movements of the horses without giving a sign of the passionate interest that she felt. Only at the moment when, in spite of the vociferations of the Tartar, the Orloff had affirmed his superiority, she rose in her seat. Her beautiful frigid mask never softened. Her closely compressed lips restrained the cry of triumph which filled her breast while she seconded with all her heart the victorious efforts of her favourite. But when all was over, she resumed her seat and said very calmly to Répnine:

"I knew it all the time—the noblest blood is always sure of victory."

Several other races succeeded. Then came the turn of the horses driven in pairs, and the interest increased. One would have thought that each man and each woman pressing around the enclosure felt themselves in some way proprietors of those beautiful animals, champions of the favourite sport of the Slaves.

Finally, the programme criers asked everybody to abandon the racing grounds and announced the last and most eagerly expected of the races and announced the last and most eagerly expected of the races--that of three horses driven abreast to the Russian vehicle par excellence, the troika. This was the grand feature of the day. AS the bell sounds, three sleighs, each drawn by three horses, approach and draw up at the starting-post. Everyone seated in the galleries rises, and in the profound silence that suddenly prevails can be felt the intense strain of expectation throughout the multitude.

The distance to be covered in twenty versts. Very melodious in the rare and icy air in the tinkling of the innumerable little bells attached to each harness. The first vehicle is drawn by three fine horses of golden chestnut colour, with manes of a lighter-shade Their harness if of fawn-coloured leather, skillfully twisted with strands of emerald-green silk; their reins are of the same colour.

The second team is composed of three Finnish horses--brown bays, with thick, crinkly hair and long, sweeping manes. Their harness is of black leather with plaques of copper. The third troika follows, drawn by three snow-white stallions. Their coats shine like satin> silvery reflections seem to play about their silky manes and slender, elegant necks. Their noses only are black as charcoal, with immense, quivering red nostrils. Their eyes, slightly prominent, are soft yet full of time, with circles of bistre like those of Asiatic women. Their harness of brown leather is wonderfully woven of tiny strips like ribbons caught together by small gold crowns. Their coachman is a youth with a brown face and bright dark eyes, a genuine type of the peasants of Bessarabia. The owner of this equipage, beautiful as some fairy chariot, is not other than the Polish Prince Sangoushko, who is the fortunate possessor of the only pure Arabian horses in Europe. The other two coachmen are tall, beard men with Calmuck faces and narrow, sparkling eyes.

They stand there, these nine horses, immovable before the Imperial tribune, so marvellously trained that not one steps over the imaginary line which seems drawn by the starter. The minutes are passing: the signal for departure is not given—the horses seem petrified! The bell fails to sound the eagerly expective beginning stroke. Veta herself, standing, leans forward, mechanically seizes Répnine's arm, and presses it will all her strength. From the furthest extremity of the track people crowd close to the barriers. The wait which the attendees must endure takes longer than a quarter of an hour. Impatience grows with the shuffle of feet and loud sighs.

So intense is the strain that the spectators seem scarcely to bear it, when suddenly the gates of the weighing stand open and the most startling and unexpected spectacle is presented to the breathless and bewildered audience. Three wretched, red sorrel horses appear in front of them, with thin flanks and melancholy air, covered with patches of muddy snow, with old, worn-out harnesses, half rope and half leather, attached to a dilapidated sleigh of birch bark, such as is used by the Laplanders to carry dried fish and frozen meat. The horses advance with hanging heads and dragging feet to take their place by the side of their aristocratic predecessors, who toss their heads with an air of human disdain, and looks with scornful eyes on the miserable intruders. A groan of surprise and horror escapes the breasts of the multitude, like a hoarse cry from one monstruous throat. Veta trembles and bites her lip until it bleeds.

The bell sounds three strokes, which resound with thrilling intensity in the midst of the general astonishment. The numerous hoofs beat in unison on the resounding: this is a sound whose echo strikes gratefully on the ears of the crowd, wearied by long waiting. The chestnut horses detach themselves from the group, and suddenly find themselves several paces ahead. The middle horse, called by the picturesque name of "The Kicker", an old racer famous for his past exploits, throws his feet about with the grace of a former star in the Imperial hippodrome. His age not permitting him to run alone, and the competition of the troikas exacting more strength than speed, he steps lightly and disdains the aid of the other two horses, lean and fiery coursers of the Don, who gallop with their noses pointing to the ground, bent in a half-circle. After them come the Finns, straining the reins until they seem in danger of breaking; already the eye of the wheel horse darts fire, and connoisseurs predict that they will give trouble to their competitors. The reward for the different bets is adjusted accordingly. Quite in the rear come the white stallions, marvels of beauty and breed, incomparably matched, and so perfectly trained that their supple and graceful bodies, their fine heads and silvery manes present the strange aspect of a single heraldic animal, so complete in the harmony of their movements. With their red nostrils quivering, light, elastic in their movements, they bound along like horses quite free from rein or harness.

Finally, following mournfully behind these proud coursers, come the poor emaciated sorrel horses, scarcely raising their feet. The faint tinkle of their little copper bells is inexpressibly melancholy. The thinness of these poor creatures makes them appear deformed--they seem to attend only as the result of some ridiculous water. Their coachman is a peasant with his back bowed, dressed in a ragged overcoat. Is he drunk, or mad? No one can guess. As he drives around the track, rude jests and bursts of laughter accompany the strange apparition. No one has ever beheld such a spectacle on the aristocratic stretch of the Neva.

In this order the troikas pass before the tribune. Halfway in the second round the little brown bay horses, flinging their feet with such velocity that one can hardly distinguish them from the spokes of the wheels, pass the chestnuts easily enough. In vain the latter struggle and quicken their pace. The Finns are some distance ahead, below the tribune of the starter.

During a greater part of the third round the same distances are maintained, but as they again draw near the starting-post the Sagoushkos, restrained until now by the cunning little Russian coachman, bound suddenly with spirit, and without perceptible effort overtake the chestnuts, pass the Finns, and leave them irrevocably behind.

The crowd stand up to their feet, shouting: "The whites are winning! Hurrah for the Sangoushkos!" and the horses, excited by the clamour, as if they quite understood the applause, quicken their pace in a frenzy of ardour. They neigh proudly, as if filled with the fire of combat, and at the end of the third round are still far in advance.

Then comes the last round. During the various exploits of its rivals, the sleigh with the peasant driver, while always behind the others, has lost no ground in spite of the indifferent, fatigued gallop of its horses.

Suddenly the peasant sits erect in his sleigh, pushes back the fur cap from his forehead, gathers up the reins, and utters a shrill, piercing, prolonged whistle. Then a most astonishing metamorphosis fairly stupefies the spectators! The shabby-looking horses, as if responding to some supernatural voice, raise their heads and gather up their strength. Their bony silhouettes take on lines of actual beauty, which seem the outcome of their moral transformation. Their chests expand, their poor heads, lately hanging and dejected, are proudly flung high, their nostrils quiver, their eyes seem to dart fire all of a sudden, their legs recover the powerful grace of an almost forgotten force, their tails, outspread like standards, lash their own meagre flanks! They are like the steeds of some spectral vision, bent with decrepitude, in whom a sudden youth and regeneration breath is instilled, a heroic reminiscence that re-echoes like the clarion of victory. As an old war-horse with bent knees, deaf and half blind, toiling wearily beneath the weight of some heavy vehicle, suddenly catching the sound of the trumpet from the regiment with whom his early years were spent, pricks up his ears, shakes the harness, beats time with his hoofs, bounds forward, dragging the heavy vehicle, his daily martyrdom, as if he scarcely feels its weight; thus the sorrels, roused from their stupor by the strident whistle, cleave the air with a prodigious bound for which no one was prepared. The transfigured horses responding to the appeal to their blood, carried forward by some unknown secret power, suddenly awakened, rush on like the wind. Soon they are between the bays and the chestnuts, pass them both, and, keeping up their frenzied gallop, gain on the Sangoushkos. Then by one supreme effort, no longer meagre, wretched, broken, but with all the proud exultation of coming victory, straining their limbs of steel, filling the air with their loud breathing, they reach the white stallions. Side by side the teams run for a few minutes then like a whirlwind the sorrels leave their competitors behind, and stand still for an instant beneath the princely tribune, victors by ten lengths.

For one long moment the crowd remains mute with astonishment. It was literally impossible to shout or applaud. They gazed stupefied at those wretched horses who had beaten the noblest blood of the empire and then, still and calm, seemed to have resumed their mournful attitudes and former ugliness, like Cinderella in the fairy tale, when she suddenly found herself in the midst of the dance in her poor grey dress and wooden shoes. Never did a magic harm act more speedily or more completely. Everybody in the audience was flabbergasted. Some of the gambling losers were still uncapable of believe that they had lost it all. The crowd stood with mouths open, not knowing how to react to the astonishing event.

And then suddenly from a hundred thousand throat broke prolonged cheers, saluting the victory of those unknown horses over their princely and aristocratic rivals. The fashionable world and the peasants crowded together around the track. All the occupants of the tribunes rose to their feet. They clapped their hands; the cheers redoubled. It was an apotheosis. Everybody wished to find out the name of the peasant, the pedigree of his horses. But without paying the slightest attention to the clamour or the ovation that surrounded him, he turned his bridle, drew his fur cap low on his forehead, and as piteously as they had entered the arena, with drooping heads and meagre flanks, the poor sorrels resumed their weary road. The light birch bark sleigh seemed to have become an insupportable burden. Nothing could stay their obstinate and obscure retreat. Soon they disappeared behind the gates of the weighing stand.

Elisaveta Petrovna has risen; with trembling hands she thrust her lorgnette into her muff, and buttoning her long fur coat, she took Répnine's arm, and drew him toward the entrance.

"Quick, quick!" she murmured, as if a daze. "I must see him, I must see them! We have not a second to lose!"

Without replying Répnine guided her through the excited group who were discussing the events of the day. He had to push his and her way through the now-noisy crowd.

"Quick!" insisted Veta, drawing him to the weighing stand. Her glance was full of disquiet, her lips were trembling, with suppressed emotion.

At this moment the red sorrels, drawing the victorious sleigh slowly, as if it were as heavy as the whole world. passed so close to them that Répnine drew her back quickly. However Veta, disengaging herself from his hold, advanced rapidly in front of the horses.

"How I should love to speak to him--how proud I should be to have those noble horses," she said, in a clear, distinct voice.

The peasant trembled and turned his head in the direction from which the voice came. With a trembling hand he raised his fur cap, and their eyes met--his: dark, melancholy, despairing; hers: imploring and filled with tears. She grew pale; that was all. Not a word more escaped her lips. The muddy sleigh, almost dropping to pieces, was driven over the frozen snow by the peasant, who had sunk back in his seat in his former defeated attitude, while the poor horses seemed ready to drop on their knees.

III

Some months had lapsed since the last race on the Neva had taken place. The astounding event which excited the curiosity of all St. Petersburg was almost forgotten. No one had ever learned the name of the peasant who with his wretched team had won the most astonishing victory inscribed on the records of the races. Some declared superstitiously that the peasant was a sorcerer; others said that a mysterious doctor had given his horses a powerful drug, potent enough to galvanise the muscles of the poor animals; there were rumours in society circles of a bastard son claiming his inheritance. But then other things occurred which made people forget this unaccountable victory.

Répnine was married to Elisaveta Petrovna. It was the event of the day. On the afternoon of the ceremony, returning from the church where all the city and the aristocracy had witnessed the marriage of one of the most celebrated beauties of the season, in elegant coupé bearing the initials of the newly wedded pair drove them to the door of their new home. At the threshold Répnine opened the door, sprang out and offered his hand to his bride. She descended graciously and very slowly, and paused a moment to admire the silvery splendour of the boreal twilight. Répnine dismissed the servants with a gesture.

Suddenly Veta turned as if drawn by some uncanny influence: then she saw attached to the railings of the park at some distance from the courtyard, a sleigh and three horses. Their forms cast monstrous shadows, giving the equipage a supernatural aspect, and the silence and immobility of these animals added to the spectral impression of their appearance. Veta went swiftly down the marble step and walked rapidly toward the mysterious vision. She approached the sleigh without the slightest hesitation, but a suppressed excitement made her heart beat wildly. She recognized the three victorious horses of the great race on the Neva.

The sleigh was empty, but on the faded, tattered cushion of the seat was pinned a slip of paper. She opened it and read: "Jean Hotzko to Elisaveta Petrovna Répnina".

Veta trembled. With an involuntary movement she pressed her lips to the scrap of paper, then let it fall with a frightened air. She approached the horses, which, at the sound of her sweet, caressing voice, whinnied softly. She caressed the noble heads that hunger and privation had blighted, but which still preserved their perfect form, and she recognised the famous racer that had been Hotzko's pride in the days of his prosperity. Then she passed a trembling hand over their beautiful eyes, and gently detaching the cord that bound them to the railing, she led them herself to the stables, where she installed them with all possible care in the safe, warm, luxurious shelter which they were never again to quit.