How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words. They drink at the
same way-side springs, and sleep under the same guardian stars. They are
conscious together of the subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening
joy of daybreak. The master shares his evening meal with his hungry
companion, and feels the soft, moist lips caressing the palm of his hand
as they close over the morsel of bread. In the gray dawn he is roused
from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a warm, sweet breath over his
sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes of his faithful
fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the day. Surely,
unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he calls upon
his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb
affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double blessing--God
bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our souls from death!

And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their
spirited music along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts
that are moved with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour
the distance, to attain the goal of the journey.

Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointed
hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and fifty
parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But
he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the
fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into the night, and
in the morning long before sunrise.

He passed along the brown slopes of Mt. Orontes, furrowed by the rocky