victim.

Deep silence spread over the arena; more hushed and more hushed it grew,
as if invisible blankets of soundlessness were dropping down over the
stirring masses; men glanced at each other with a vague surmise, knowing
that this was no part of the performance. The whole audience drew
forward to the edge of the seats and stared, first at the monstrous
horse, and next at the group of men who could "ride anything that walks
on four feet and wears a skin."

Some of the women were already turning away their heads, for this was to
be a battle, not a game; but the vast majority of New York merely
watched and waited and smiled a slow, stiff-lipped smile. All the
surroundings were changed, the flaring electric lights, the vast roof,
the clothes of the multitude, but the throng of white faces was the same
as that pale host which looked down from the sides of the Coliseum when
the lions were loosed upon their victims.

As for the wild riders from the cattle ranges, they drew into a close
group with the ringmaster between them and the gaunt stallion, almost as
if the fearless ones were seeking for protection. But the announcer
himself lost his almost invincible _sang-froid_; in all his matchless
vocabulary there were no sounding phrases ready for this occasion, and
little Werther strutted in the centre of the great arena, rising to his
opportunity.

He imitated the ringmaster's phraseology. "La-a-a-dies and gen'l'mun,
the price has gone up. The 'death-defyin', dare-devils that laugh at
danger' ain't none too ready to ride my hoss. Maybe the price is too low
for 'em. It's raised. One thousand dollars--cash--for any man in