On, gallant Black! on, my brave pet! We were almost under
the paddock.
Then we nosed the Brown's dank; then we reached to his girt';
neck and neck I rode at his shoulder.
As we flashed past the post I had won by a head. How they
cheered, "Bravo, Crusader!"

VII

But Crusader stopped short; gave a sigh and fell dead; I
stood all alone in the winning.
And a hush came over the clamorous mob; like a babe on his
neck I was sobbing.
He had run his last race; game to the end, his brave heart
broke in the striving.

The girl's voice faltered and died away to a broken whisper as she told
of the death of Crusader. For a full minute there was a noiseless hush.
The full pathos of the gallant horse's striving had crept into the
hearts that were flesh and blood; and, carried away by their feelings,
the people had forgotten all about their tortured convictions of the
sinfulness of making a horse go faster than a sharp trot. Gradually
into their awakening senses stole a conviction that somehow they were
countenancing the sin of racing.

Before the complete horror of the situation had mastered the audience, a
strong pair of hands, far back in the church, came together with an
explosive clap. Like the rat-rat-tat of a quick-firing gun was the
appreciative volley of recognition from the solitary applauder. It went
rolling and crackling through the church defiantly, derisively,