While Drusilla was quarreling, Timoleon was grazing near by, and Aaron and the children were still laughing.
“Ef you-all think it so funny, go dar whar dat hoss is, an’ let ’im nibble at you an’ blow his nose on you a time er two.”
“What does she say, Son of Ben Ali?” Timoleon asked, raising his head from the rank Bermuda grass.
“She says she thought you were about to bite off her head.”
Timoleon gave a snort of contempt, and addressed himself again to the dainty feast before him.
“Not too much of that, Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron. “You are too fat now. You need exercise. How long since you have had a gallop?”
“A month of Sundays, Son of Ben Ali.”
“To-day you shall have one. On your head I will place a halter, on your broad back I will strap your blanket. On the blanket I will place my friends and yours, the grandchildren of the White-haired Master. But listen! a stumble, and I’m done with you; any trickery, and the Son of Ben Ali will come near you no more.”
“So may it be, Son of Ben Ali.”