ellow,' returned Sperelli unmoved 'that you
are a little out of temper----'

'And if I am?'

'You are at liberty to think what you like about my laughing.'

'Then I think it is idiotic.'

Sperelli bounded to his feet and made a stride forward with uplifted
whip. By a miracle, Paolo Caligaro managed to catch his arm. Violent
words followed. Don Marc Antonio Spada appeared upon the scene and heard
the altercation.

'That's enough, boys--you both know what you have to do
to-morrow--you've got to ride now.'

The two adversaries finished their dressing in silence and then went
out. The news of the quarrel had already spread through the enclosure
and up to the grand stand, increasing the excitement of the race. With
a refinement of perfidy, the Contessa di Lucoli repeated it to Donna
Ippolita.

The latter gave no sign of inward perturbation. 'I am sorry to hear
that,' was her only comment, 'I thought they were friends.'

The crowd surged round the bookmakers. _Miching Mallecho_, the horse of
the Conte d'Ugenta, and _Brummel_, that of the Marchese Rutolo, were the
favourites; then came the Duke di Beffi's _Satirist_ and Caligaro's
_Carbonilla_. However, the best judges had not overmuch confidence in
the two first, thinking that the nervous excitement of their riders must
inevitably tell upon the racing.

But Andrea Sperelli was perfectly calm, not to say gay.

His sense of superiority over his rival gave him assurance; moreover,
his romantic taste for any adventure savouring of peril, inherited from
his Byronic father, shed a halo of glory round the situation, and all
the inborn generosity of his young blood awoke at the prospect of
danger.

With a beating heart, he went forward to meet his horse as to a friend
who was bringing him the news of some great good fortune. He stroked its
nose fondly, and the glances of the animal's eye, an eye that flashed
with the inextinguishable fire of noblest breeding, intoxicated him like
a woman's magnetic gaze.

'Mallecho,' he whispered as he caressed the horse, 'this is a great
day--we must win!'

His trainer, a little red-faced man, who was engaged in scrutinising the
other horses as they were led past by their grooms, answered in his
rough husky voice,--'There's no doubt but you will!'

Miching Mallecho was a superb bay from the stables of the Baron de
Soubeyran, and combined extreme elegance of build with extraordinary
strength of muscle. His fine and shining coat, un