arched neck, the deep chest, the rather short barrel, the narrow waist,
powerful flanks, and sinewy, springy, slender legs.

"He is beautiful," he said. "Methinks I never saw so perfect a horse."

"And his intelligence is in kind," said Aymer. "He has many
accomplishments, but the one most satisfactory to me is the way he
understands my voice. . . Observe------"

He dropped the reins over the pommel, and at the word, Selim, without
touch of knee or shift of bit, went through all the gaits and facings,
ending with the most difficult of all--the seven artificial movements
of the horse.

Sir James Dacre's rather cold face warmed with admiration and he reined
over and stroked the black's soft muzzle.

"You are a wonder, Selim," he said. "Your equal is not in the Kingdom;
though, in a short dash, the Countess' bay mare might put you to your
speed."

"Very likely," said Aymer, "but I will wager there is none in England
can beat him from the Solway to Land's End."

Dacre smiled--"I would rather share the bet than take it."

Then the talk led to the horses of France and Spain, and thence to the
life there in general, for Sir James had never crossed the Channel, and
he plied his companion with questions. And so they jogged along in
pleasant converse, and De Lacy saw that the reserved and quiet Dacre