the focus toward which all eyes were turned, went up to his horse with the slow and deliberate motions which were usual to him when he was under the strain of excitement.
Cord, in honor of the races, had put on his gala-day costume: he wore a black coat, buttoned to the chin, and a stiffly starched shirt-collar, which made a support for his cheeks; he had on Hessian boots and a round black cap. He was, as always, calm and full of importance, as he stood by the mare's head, holding both reins in his hand. Frou Frou was still shivering as if she had an attack of fever; her fiery eyes gazed askance at Vronsky as he approached. He passed his finger under the girth of the saddle. The mare looked at him still more askance, showed her teeth, and pricked up her ears. The Englishman puckered up his lips with a grin at the idea that there could be any doubt as to his skill in putting on a saddle. "Mount, and you won't be so nervous," said he.
Vronsky cast a final glance on his rivals; he knew that he should not see them again until the race was over. Two of them had already gone to the starting point. Galtsin, a friend of his, and one of his dangerous rivals, was turning around and around his bay stallion, which was trying to keep him from mounting. A little Leib-hussar in tight cavalry trousers was off on a gallop, bent double over his horse, like a cat on the crupper, in imitation of the English fashion. Prince Kuzovlef, white as a sheet, was mounted on a thoroughbred mare from the Grabovsky stud; an Englishman held it by the bridle. Vronsky and all his comrades knew Kuzovlef's terrible self-conceit, and his peculiarity of "weak nerves." They knew that he was timid at everything, especially timid of riding horseback; but now, notwithstanding the fact that all this was horrible to him, because he knew that people broke their necks, and that at every hurdle stood a surgeon, an ambulance with its cross and sister of charity, still he had made up his mind to ride.
They exchanged glances, and Vronsky gave him an
