the south, the east, and the west.

"France amuses me, England commands my respect, but Russia takes my
breath away," said Deulin, elbowing his way through the medley of many
races. On all sides one heard different languages--German, the sing-song
Russian--the odd, exclamatory tongue which three emperors cannot kill.

"And Germany?" inquired Cartoner, in his low, curt voice.

"Bores me, my friend."

He was pushing his way gently through into the paddock, where a number
of men were congregated, but no ladies.

"The Fatherland," he added, "the heavy Fatherland! I killed a German
once, when I was in the army of the Loire--a most painful business."

He was still shaking his head over this reminiscence when they reached
the gateway of the paddock. He was passing through it when, without
turning towards him, he grasped Cartoner's arm.

"Look!" he said, "look!"

There was a sudden commotion in the well-dressed crowd in the paddock,
and above the gray coats and glossy hats the tossing colors of a jockey.
The head of a startled horse and two gleaming shoes appeared above the
heads of men for a moment. A horse had broken away with its jockey only
half in the saddle.

The throng divided, and dispersed in either direction like sheep before
a dog--all except one man, who, walking with two sticks, could not move
above a snail's pace.

Then, because they were both quick men, with the instincts and a long
practice of action in moments calling for a rapid decision, Deulin and
Cartoner ran forward. But they could not save the catastrophe which
they knew was imminent. The horse advanced with long, wild strides, and
knocked the crippled old man over as if he were a ninepin. He came on
at a gallop now, the jockey leaning forward and trying to catch a
broken bridle, his two stirrups flying, his cap off. The little man was
swearing in English. And he had need to, for through the paddock gate
the crowd was densely packed and he was charging into it on a maddened
horse beyond control.

Deulin was nearer, and therefore the first to get to the horse; but
Cartoner's greater weight came an instant later, and the horse's head
was down.

"Let go! let go!" cried the jockey through his teeth, as Cartoner and
Deulin, one on each side, crammed the stirrups over his feet. "Let go!
I'll teach him!"

And they obeyed him, for the horse interested them less than the Prince
Bukaty, lying half-stunned on the turf. They were both at his side in a