"C'est a vous,
Monsieur," he says, looking at the gold piece _as_ it lay face upward
in his palm, and he laughed lightly again as if not displeased with his
luck. As for Calvert, he was no less pleased, for he suddenly felt
impatient and eager for the trial. He gave a glance at the fastenings of
his skates and then, sweeping around to the starting-place, he skated
slowly at first but with ever-increasing speed. As he reached the gilt
chair he paused for the infinitesimal part of a second as a horse does
at a hurdle, and then, with one clean spring, was over safely. As he
slid along the smooth ice, unable to check his impetus, he could hear
the applause of the spectators on the shore and the exclamations and
laughter of the ladies. Suddenly he bethought him of St. Aulaire. He
turned quickly and was just in time to see St. Aulaire start off. There
was a gallant recklessness in his bearing, but Calvert noted that his
movements seemed heavy, though his pace accelerated greatly as he neared
the improvised hurdle. Indeed, he was coming too fast, and, as he
reached the unlucky fauteuil, he was going with such speed that he could
neither calculate the length of the jump nor raise himself sufficiently
for it, and it was with a little cry of horror that Calvert and the
onlookers saw the Baron essay it and fall short, catching his skates in
the arm of the chair and crashing down heavily upon the ice.
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