“He has forgotten us,” said Sweetest Susan in some alarm.
Aaron laughed. “Folks forget,” said he, “but my brothers that run on four legs never forget.”
When the Black Stallion had taken his exercise, he walked slowly back to the stable, sometimes pausing to crop the grass or to hold his head high in the air.
“Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron, “you have forgotten your friends.”
“I am the forgotten one, Son of Ben Ali,” replied Timoleon, “my feed is chucked into the trough, the door is shut, and I am left to chew my cud. Am I a cow, that I should be chewing my cud? Am I a hog, that I should be fastened in a pen?”
“Whose fault, Grandson of Abdallah? You will have no one to feed you but me, and I—well, what I have to do I must do. The grandchildren of the White-haired Master are here.”
“I thought they had forgotten me, Son of Ben Ali. I am glad they are here. But what of it? I go in my pen, and the door is closed; what matters it to me whether they are here or yonder?”
“No, Grandson of Abdallah. In the pasture here the morning sun shines, the grass is green, the air is cool. Here for a little while you may stay with these grandchildren of the White-haired Master. Your stable is to be cleaned.”
For answer, the Black Stallion sought out a soft place in the grass, held his head close to the ground, walked in a small circle that constantly grew smaller until his knees bent under him, and then he keeled over on his side and began to wallow. This finished, he rose and began to graze close to the children, apparently as gentle as any horse could be.
“Do you remember the night the White-haired Master rode you to Harmony?” asked Aaron from inside the stable.