No help from his rider certainly, but every rancher in the crowd was shouting hoarsely and swinging himself towards the finish as though that effort of will and body might, mysteriously, be transmitted to the struggling horse and give him new strength.
Fifty yards from the end his nose was at Lady Mary's shoulder and Marianne saw the head of the mare jerk up.

She was through but the stallion was through also.

He had staggered in his stride, drunkenly.
She saw him shake his head, saw him fling forward again, and the snaky head crept once more to the neck of the mare, to her ears, and on and on.
Five hundred voices bellowed his name to lift him to the finish: "Alcatraz!" Then they were over the line and the riders were pulling up.
It was not hard to stop Alcatraz.

He went by Marianne at a reeling trot, his legs shambling weakly and his head drooping, a weary rag of horseflesh with his ears still gloomily flattened to his neck.
But who had won?
The uproar was so terrific that Marianne could not distinguish the name of the victor as the judges called it, waving their arms to command silence.

Then she saw Colonel Dickinson walking with fallen head.