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Vronsky looked round for the last time at his rivals. He knew

that he would not see them during the race. Two were already

riding forward to the point from which they were to start.

Galtsin, a friend of Vronsky's and one of his more formidable

rivals, was moving round a bay horse that would not let him

mount. A little light hussar in tight riding breeches rode off at

a gallop, crouched up like a cat on the saddle, in imitation of

English jockeys. Prince Kuzovlev sat with a white face on his

thoroughbred mare from the Grabovsky stud, while an English groom

led her by the bridle. Vronsky and all his comrades knew Kuzovlev

and his peculiarity of "weak nerves" and terrible vanity. They

knew that he was afraid of everything, afraid of riding a

spirited horse. But now, just because it was terrible, because

people broke their necks, and there was a doctor standing at each

obstacle, and an ambulance with a cross on it, and a sister of

mercy, he had made up his mind to take part in the race.