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‘Did you speak, Don Jorge?’ demanded the archbishop.
‘That is a fine brilliant on your lordship’s hand,’ said I.
‘You are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge,’ said the archbishop, his features brightening up; ‘vaya! so am I; they are pretty things. Do you understand them?’
‘I do,’ said I, ‘and I never saw a finer brilliant than your own, one excepted; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine, a Tartar Khan. He did not bear it on his finger, however; it stood in the frontlet of his horse, where it shone like a star. He called it Daoud Scharr, which, being interpreted, meaneth light of war.’
‘Vaya!’ said the archbishop, ‘how very extraordinary! I am glad you are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge. Speaking of horses, reminds me that I have frequently seen you on horseback. Vaya! how you ride! It is dangerous to be in your way.’
‘Is your lordship fond of equestrian exercise?’
‘By no means, Don Jorge; I do not like horses. It is not the practice of the Church to ride on horseback. We prefer mules; they are the quieter animals. I fear horses, they kick so violently.’
‘The kick of a horse is death,’ said I, ‘if it touches a vital part. I am not, however, of your lordship’s opinion with respect to mules: a good ginete may retain his seat on a horse however vicious, but a mule—vaya! when a false mule tira par detras, I do not believe that the Father of the Church himself could keep the saddle a moment, however sharp his bit.’
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