True enough, in another moment the black would have struck the grey
sideways. Lysbeth saw Van de Werff rise from his seat and throw his
weight backward, dragging the grey on to his haunches. By an inch--not
more--the Wolf sleigh missed the gelding. Indeed, one runner of it
struck his hoof, and the high wood work of the side brushed and cut his
nostril.

"A foul, a foul!" yelled the skaters, and it was over. Once more they
were speeding forward, but now the black had a lead of at least ten
yards, for the grey must find his stride again. They were in the
straight; the course was lined with hundreds of witnesses, and from the
throats of every one of them arose a great cry, or rather two cries.

"The Spaniard, the Spaniard wins!" said the first cry that was answered
by another and a deeper roar.

"No, Hollander, the Hollander! The Hollander comes up!"

Then in the midst of the fierce excitement--bred of the excitement
perhaps--some curious spell fell upon the mind of Lysbeth. The race, its
details, its objects, its surroundings faded away; these physical
things were gone, and in place of them was present a dream, a spiritual
interpretation such as the omens and influences of the times she lived
in might well inspire. What did she seem to see?

She saw the Spaniard and the Hollander striving for victory, but not a
victory of horses. She saw the black Spanish Wolf, at first triumphant,
outmatch the Netherland Badger. Still, the Badger, the dogged Dutch
badger, held on.