"The grandsire from the desert of Arabia, where Allah created the
horse out o' the south wind. See the slender flanks of the
Barbary? See her eye?"

He seemed to talk in that odd strain for the mere joy of it, and
there was in his voice the God-given vanity of bird or poet.

He had caught the filly by her little plume and stood patting her
forehead.

"A wonderful thing, sor, is the horse's eye," he continued. "A
glance! an' they know if ye be kind or cruel. Sweet Phyllis! Her
eyelids are as bows; her lashes like the beard o' the corn. Have
ye ever heard the three prayers o' the horse?"

"No," said Allen.

"Well, three times a day, sor, he prays, so they say, in the
desert. In the morning he thinks a prayer like this, 'O Allah!
make me beloved o' me master.' At noon, 'Do well by me master that
he may do well by me.' At even, 'O Allah! grant, at last, I may
bear me master into Paradise.'

"An' the Arab, sor, he looks for a hard ride an' many jumps in the
last journey, an' is kind to him all the days of his life, sor, so
he may be able to make it."

For a moment he led her up and down at a quick trot, her dainty
feet touching the earth lightly as a fawn's.