watching each other warily out of the corners of their eyes.

The black continued to gain. Halfway from home light was visible between
the two horses. The pace became terrific, the excitement so intense that
not a sound was heard but that of racing hoofs. The horses swept onward
like projectiles, the same smoothness, the same suggestion of eternal
flight. The bodies were extended until the tense muscles rose under the
satin coats. Vitriolo's eyes flashed viciously; El Rayo's strained with
determination. Vitriolo's nostrils were as red as angry craters; El
Rayo's fluttered like paper in the wind.

Three-quarters of the race was run, and the rider of Vitriolo could tell
by the sound of the hoof-beats behind him that he had a good lead of at
least two lengths over the Northern champion. A smile curled the corners
of his heavy lips; the race was his already.

Suddenly El Rayo's vaquero raised his hand, and down came the maddening
quirto, first on one side, then on the other. The spurs dug; the blood
spurted. The crowd burst into a howl of delight as their favourite
responded. Startled by the sound, Vitriolo's rider darted a glance over
his shoulder, and saw El Rayo bearing down upon him like a thunder-bolt,
regaining the ground that he had lost, not by inches, but by feet. Two
hundred paces from the finish he was at the black's flanks; one hundred
and fifty, he was at his girth; one hundred, and the horses were neck
and neck; and still the quirto whirred down on El Rayo's heaving flanks,
the spurs dug deeper into his quivering flesh.

The vaquero of Vitriolo sat like an image, using neither whip nor spur,
his teeth set, his eyes rolling from the goal ahead to the rider at his
side.