The issues of this race were
extraordinary, and it was heart-breaking to see him suffer; he could not
remain still a moment. A prey to all the terrors of hope, exhausted with
anticipation, he rested himself against the sideboard and wiped drops of
sweat from his forehead. A broiling sunlight infested their window-panes,
the room grew oven-like, and he was obliged at last to go into the back
parlour and lie down. He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted,
hardly able to breathe; the arm once so strong and healthy was shrunken to
a little nothing. He seemed quite bloodless, and looking at him Esther
could hardly hope that any climate would restore him to health. He just
asked her what the time was, and said, "The race is being run now." A few
minutes after he said, "I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him get
first past the post." He spoke as if he were sure, and said nothing about
the evening paper. If he were disappointed, Esther felt that it would kill
him, and she knelt down by the bedside and prayed that God would allow the
horse to win. It meant her husband's life, that was all she knew. Oh, that
the horse might win! Presently he said, "There's no use praying, I feel
sure it is all right. Go into the next room, stand on the balcony so that
you may see the boy coming along.
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