gone. If there was a roll in her weary gallop, there was a stagger in
his gait; still he was literally flinging himself towards the finish. No
help from his rider certainly, but every rancher in the crowd was
shouting hoarsely and swinging himself towards the finish as though
that effort of will and body might, mysteriously, be transmitted to the
struggling horse and give him new strength.

Fifty yards from the end his nose was at Lady Mary's shoulder and
Marianne saw the head of the mare jerk up. She was through but the
stallion was through also. He had staggered in his stride, drunkenly.
She saw him shake his head, saw him fling forward again, and the snaky
head crept once more to the neck of the mare, to her ears, and on and
on.

Five hundred voices bellowed his name to lift him to the finish:
"Alcatraz!" Then they were over the line and the riders were pulling up.
It was not hard to stop Alcatraz. He went by Marianne at a reeling trot,
his legs shambling weakly and his head drooping, a weary rag of
horseflesh with his ears still gloomily flattened to his neck.

But who had won? The uproar was so terrific that Marianne could not
distinguish the name of the victor as the judges called it, waving their
arms to command silence. Then she saw Colonel Dickinson walking with
fallen head. The fat man was sagging in his step. His face had grown
pale and pouchy in the moment. And she knew that the ragged chestnut had
indeed conquered. Courage is the strength of the weak but in Alcatraz
hatred had occupied that place.