He knew them all by name, and when he called them they seemed to recognize him for their master. There was the Scottish hound, native of the highlands, with thick, rough coat; the Irish wolf-hound, ruddy and strong, with brown irises showing clearly in their whites; the Tartary hound, spotted with black and yellow, a native of vast Asiatic steppes, where at night he had guarded a tent against hyenas and leopards; the Persian dog, light-colored and small, with ears covered with long silky hair, a fluffy tail, of lighter tint on the sides and legs, more graceful than the antelopes he had killed; there was also the Spanish galgo that had migrated with the Moors, that magnificent animal held in leash by a pompous dwarf in the painting by Velásquez, instructed to course and to force on the naked plains of the Mancha; the Arabian sloughi, illustrious depredator of the desert, with black tongue and palate, a noble animal, all pride, courage, and elegance, accustomed to sleep on rich rugs and to lap pure milk from a pure vase. Assembled in a pack, they quivered around him who knew how to reawaken in their torpid blood their primitive instincts of pursuit and carnage.
"Which among you was Gog's best friend?" he asked, looking from one to another of the pairs of beautiful, eager eyes fixed upon him. "You, Hierro? You, Altair?"
His peculiar accent animated the sensitive creatures, which listened with suppressed and intermittent growls.
"Well, I must tell you all something that I have kept secret till to-day. Gog—do you hear?—who could crush a hare with one snap of his jaws—Gog is crippled."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Myrta, concerned. "Is it possible, Stelio? And Magog—how is he?"
"Magog is safe and well."
These were the names of a pair of greyhounds that Lady Myrta had given to the young man.
"How did it happen?"
"Alas, poor Gog! He had already killed thirty-seven hares. He possessed all the virtues of his fine breed: swiftness, resistance, incredible rapidity in turning, and the constant desire to kill his prey, besides the classical manner of running straight and seizing his prey from behind almost at the same instant. Have you ever watched a greyhound in coursing, Foscarina?"
"Never."