They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh from the rain, but mild and exhilarating.
The groom brought forth the mare. ‘The Daughter of the Star’ stood before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her master, and whither was she about to take him?
Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was not curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a little, and then say:
‘I am sorry to part.’
‘I also,’ said the stranger. ‘But life is constant separation.’
‘I hope we may meet again,’ said Coningsby.
‘If our acquaintance be worth preserving,’ said the stranger, ‘you may be sure it will not be lost.’
‘But mine is not worth preserving,’ said Coningsby, earnestly. ‘It is yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long mused.’
The stranger took the bridle of ‘the Daughter of the Star,’ and turning round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion.
‘Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,’ said Coningsby; ‘your actions should be heroic.’