“Saracen has established himself, then? Good! And the broncho?”
“Bien, a trifle only. They laugh much in the kitchen—”
“The hall, Brillon.”
“—in the hall last night. That hired man over there—”
“That groom, Brillon.”
“—that groom, he was a fool, and fat. He was the worst. This morning he laugh at my broncho. He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, no travel. I say the broncho was not so ver’ bad, and I tell him try the paces. I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb. He mount, and sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start. For a minute it was pretty; and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was the broncho bucking—doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead. Once that—groom—come down on the pommel, then over on the ground like a ball, all muck and blood.”
The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him. Gaston’s mouth quirked.
“A solid success, Brillon. Teach them all the tricks you can. At ten o’clock come to my room. The campaign begins then.”
Jacques ran a hand through his long black hair, and fingered his sash. Gaston understood.
“The hair and ear-rings may remain, Brillon; but the beard and clothes must go—except for occasions. Come along.”