He had not underestimated the time; in a little less than his five
minutes the doors at the end of the arena were thrown wide and Werther
reappeared. Behind him came two stalwarts leading between them a rangy
monster. Before the blast of lights and the murmurs of the throng the
big stallion reared and flung himself back, and the two who lead him
bore down with all their weight on the halter ropes. He literally walked
down the planks into the arena, a strange, half-comical, half-terrible
spectacle. New York burst into applause. It was a trained horse, of
course, but a horse capable of such training was worth applause.

At that roar of sound, vague as the beat of waves along the shore, the
stallion lurched down on all fours and leaped ahead, but the two on the
halter ropes drove all their weight backward and checked the first
plunge. A bright-coloured scarf waved from a nearby box, and the
monster swerved away. So, twisting, plunging, rearing, he was worked
down the arena. As he came opposite a box in which sat a tall young man
in evening clothes the latter rose and shouted: "Bravo!"

The fury of the stallion, searching on all sides for a vent but
distracted from one torment to another, centred suddenly on this slender
figure. He swerved and rushed for the barrier with ears flat back and
bloodshot eyes. There he reared and struck at the wood with his great
front hoofs; the boards splintered and shivered under the blows.

As for the youth in the box, he remained quietly erect before this brute
rage. A fleck of red foam fell on the white front of his shirt. He drew
his handkerchief and wiped it calmly away, but a red stain remained. At
the same time the two who led the stallion pulled him back from the
barrier and he stood with head high, searching for a more convenient