My saddle was made of camel-bags, filled with blankets and clothes, and the motion of the horse was smooth and soporific. I became drowsy from the long day’s ride, and now and then stretched myself in the saddle.
In the very heart of the forest my horse reared so unexpectedly that had it not been for the vast pillowy saddle I should have been thrown to the ground. My brother’s horse not only reared but whirled about like a leaf in a storm. The kouroudji seized the bridle of my horse and patted and spoke to him, while my brother, who was a very good horseman, managed to calm his own mount somewhat, and to keep him headed in the direction we wished to go.
“What is it?” I asked the kouroudji. “Why are they behaving like this?”
The Turk turned to my brother. “The effendi knows?”
“I’m afraid I do. They smell blood.”
“So they do, Bey Effendi. It is not the first time this accursed forest has been the grave of men. Allah kerim!”
He took hold of the bridles of both horses, and spoke to them in endearing terms. There is an understanding between Turks and horses as touching as the friendship between them and dogs.
From a monotonous and tedious journey, our ride, of a sudden, had become most exciting. Although the horses now followed the kouroudji obediently, they whinnied from time to time, and shivered.
“Don’t be frightened,” said my brother to me, “and whatever happens keep your head, and don’t scream. Screaming will do no good, and it may lead to mishandling.”
“But can’t we go back, Mano?” I asked.