At the appointed hour, 6 A.M., Zöega was ready at the door of the hotel with his shaggy cavalcade, which surely was the most extraordinary spectacle I had ever witnessed. The horned horses of Africa would have been commonplace objects in comparison with these remarkable animals destined to carry me to the Geysers of Iceland. Each one of them looked at me through a stack of mane containing hair enough to have stuffed half a dozen chairs; and as for their tails, they hung about the poor creatures like huge bunches of wool. Some of them were piebald and had white eyes—others had no eyes at all. Seeing me look at them rather apprehensively, Zöega remarked,
“Oh, sir, you needn’t be afraid. They are perfectly gentle!”
“Don’t they bite?” said I.
“Oh no, sir, not at all.”
“Nor kick?”
“No, sir, never.”
“Nor lie down on the way?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“Answer me one more question, Zöega, and I’m done.” [This I said with great earnestness.] “Do these horses ever eat cats or porcupines, or swallow heavy brooms with crooked handles?”
“Oh no, sir!” answered my guide, with a look of some surprise; “they are too well trained for that.”