Before she could finish what she had to say, the strong arms of Aaron had lifted her to a seat behind Buster John.
“How can you fall?” asked that bold youngster. “Hold fast to me. Put your arms around me, and when you fall, let me know.”
“You didn’t talk that way just now,” said Sweetest Susan. To this Buster John made no reply. Aaron stood beside the black stallion and stroked his neck.
“Grandson of Abdallah, show me what you are this day. Once around the field, and then to the lane gate.”
The horse took three long strides forward, and then broke into a canter as before. Aaron ran beside Timoleon a little way, one hand on Sweetest Susan’s elbow to give her confidence, but he soon saw that she had lost all fear, and so, still running, he went to the gate that opened in the lane and threw it back, and stood there. The black stallion, going in a steady gallop, swept around the field, and then came toward the gate. The children were laughing.
“Don’t forget, Grandson of Abdallah! You know my hand!” This was Aaron’s last warning, as Timoleon went through the gate. The Son of Ben Ali watched horse and riders for a few moments. Then he closed the gate and ran swiftly through the lot, going toward the head of the avenue that led to the big house. The lane, half a mile in length, led obliquely away from the house and from the avenue until it joined the public road. From that point, turning squarely to the left, the distance to the avenue gate was about a mile. From the stable to the avenue gate, through the spring lot—the way Aaron went—was not quite half a mile.
“If I go too fast, grandson of the White-haired Master,” said Timoleon, as they turned into the public road, “touch me on the shoulder. And don’t be frightened when I lift my head and tell the fools I am coming.”
As they came in sight of the negro quarters, Timoleon raised his head high in the air and neighed shrilly three times in quick succession. It sounded like a challenge to man and beast. That plantation had heard it many times before, and it had usually been the forerunner of some display of savagery on the part of the black stallion—sometimes a negro run down and trampled, sometimes a mule or a cow crippled; but always something. The sound of it was heard with dismay, except by Aaron.
It was no wonder, therefore, that the negroes came out of their cabins with alarm painted on their faces. It was no wonder they stood transfixed when they saw the horse flying along the road, his thick mane whipping the wind, with the two children on his back. They had no time to admire the strength and symmetry of the horse, and yet he presented a beautiful sight—his glossy neck arched, his long mane enveloping the children as in a cloud, the undulations of his magnificent form and his swift movements the perfection of grace.
Once more, as he thundered across the bridge that spanned the stream leading from the spring, the black stallion screamed forth his note of defiance. A man, coming along the road, went over the fence as nimbly as a squirrel. Cows grazing in the fields, near the roadside, hoisted their tails in the air and ran off to the woods. The mules in the horse lot ran around aimlessly, and then huddled themselves together in a corner. The Gray Pony went scampering through the peach orchard, hunting a place of safety.