Atalanta
curveting, flung forward at the delicate hint of Gaius’ knees
pressed inward. She raced breakneck, in exquisite condition, down the
steep shingle of the outer mound and landed, like some forward flung
gelding of the race-course, feet firm, head delicate, shoulders
quivering, wet and with a wild fire of phosphorescent light glinting
on her bright flanks. Bellerophon came after. As the heavier horse
struck the loosened shingle in his mad down-plunge, Marius, for one
exalted second, thought the game was over. With what a hair-breath of
a swerve all would be simplified. The great beast with its heavier
form, its dark weight, might so easily slide forward; the simple
heave beneath would tell, in one second, of some unwonted incident.
Marius’ knees, his heavy thighs, unconsciously as if his very soul
were lodged there, seemed waiting with some supersense for such sheer
incident. For one exalted second, he thought surely on that loose
shale, Bellerophon had failed him. In one exalted second, he could
see the odd severance of steed from rider. A severance (he visualized
it) not more fearful than that of head from body. Dour memory
assailed him. The late unofficial expedition to Sardinia. Rome the
insuperable. Against his face whipped the dire evening mist of the
campagna. Beneath him, he knew in an agonising second, that
Bellerophon had gained the soft turf, that Bellerophon was, like
Rome, invincible.
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