All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had
been waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the
ground impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the
eagerness of her master's purpose, though she knew not its
meaning.

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high,
joyful chant of morning song, before the white mist had begun
to lift lazily from the plain, the Other Wise Man was in the
saddle, riding swiftly along the high-road, which skirted the
base of Mount Orontes, westward.

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,