"I shall walk," said Deborah.
"That cannot be," replied the young man, catching a glimpse of her broken sandal. "And see, even Emir forbids it."
The horse had thrust his long nose into her hands.
"Emir—the Prince—and does he not deserve the name?" said Nadan, who evidently shared his personal conceit with his pride in his beast. "Emir's stock is as old and pure as the fountain of Dûk by the city of Jericho, whose waters they say your prophet Elisha healed—Emir will have no other rider to-day than yourself. See, he himself says so," for the horse was rubbing his head against her shoulder.
Nadan made his hand the stirrup, and lifted Deborah to the saddle.
"Were the daughter of Elkiah as ignorant of horses as they say all Jerusalem women are, Emir would carry you as safely as if he had arms, and you lay within them. But you are no stranger to the saddle. Come, Emir, we must be to-night at Masada."
He patted the head of the horse.
"You remember, my Emir, the tournament you had with Ben Aaron's Nagid, which means the same as Emir? It was Prince against Prince indeed. Our lady should have seen us that day. Eh, Emir?"
The horse shook his long mane, pawed the ground, and whinnied his challenge, as if his master's words were the promise of another contest.
Nadan took the single rein and led the way. Neither spoke for a long while. At length Deborah gave a cry. Emir raised his head, and neighed like the blast of a trumpet.