So he plunged onward, each step slower than that before, his eyes fixed on the farthest white streak.

From three sides of the great field poured forth the resonance of twelve thousand voices, triumphant, despairing, appealing, inciting, the very acme of sound.
Yet Paul vows that he heard nothing save the beat of Pearse's footsteps and the awful pounding of his own heart.
On the fifteen-yard line, just to the left of the goal, the critical moment came.

White, with clutching, outstretched hands, strove to evade Pearse's shoulder, and did so.

But the effort cost him what he gained, for, dodging Pearse and striving to make a sudden turn toward Paul, his foot slipped and he measured his length on the turf; and ere he had regained his feet the pursuit passed over him.

Pearse met the first runner squarely and both went down.