"That was too much!" said Modigisel.
"The insolence enraged us all. We followed at once,--at least twenty men,--our best horses and riders, some on the splendid Moorish steeds we had just purchased. At the corner of the street he was so near that Thrasabad hurled his spear at him, but in vain! Though at our cries people flocked from all the cross streets to stop him in the main one, there was no checking him. The guards at the southern gate heard the uproar; they sprang to close the doors, were in the act of shutting them, but the superb creature darted through like an arrow. We pursued for half an hour; by that time he had gained so much on us that we could just see him in the distance like an ostrich disappearing in the sands of the desert.
"Enraged, loudly berating the faithless Moor, we rode slowly home on our exhausted steeds. When we reached the house, there in my courtyard stood the Moor, leaning against the black horse; he had ridden in again at the western gate. Throwing the gold at my feet, he said: 'Now do you know the value of this noble animal? Keep your gold! I will not sell him.' He rode slowly and proudly away. So I lost Styx, the best horse in the world. Ha, is this a delusion? Or is it the heavy wine? Down below--in the arena--beside the other racers--"
"Stands Styx," said Astarte, quietly.
"To whom does the treasure belong?" shrieked Thrasaric, frantically.
"To me," replied Modigisel.
"Did you buy him?"
"No. In the last foray the animal was captured with some camels and several other horses."
"But not by you?" roared Thrasaric. "You were at home as usual, in Astarte's broad shadow."
"But I sent thirty mercenaries in my place; they captured the animal, tied in the Moorish camp; and what the mercenary captures--"