"I might venture to guess," said Dacre, as they cantered across the bailey toward the gate, "that that black of yours was never foaled in England."
"I got Selim in Spain," De Lacy answered, "and with him the story that he came from the stables of the Soldan of Granada—but of that I cannot vouch—nor do I care," patting the shining shoulder; "he is my good friend and companion, and he has never failed me."
Dacre looked at the small head, with its bright, full, kind eye, broad forehead, tapered muzzle, thin, sensitive nostrils and ears; at the arched neck, the deep chest, the rather short barrel, the narrow waist, powerful flanks, and sinewy, springy, slender legs.
"He is beautiful," he said. "Methinks I never saw so perfect a horse."
"And his intelligence is in kind," said Aymer. "He has many accomplishments, but the one most satisfactory to me is the way he understands my voice… Observe———"
He dropped the reins over the pommel, and at the word, Selim, without touch of knee or shift of bit, went through all the gaits and facings, ending with the most difficult of all—the seven artificial movements of the horse.
Sir James Dacre's rather cold face warmed with admiration and he reined over and stroked the black's soft muzzle.
"You are a wonder, Selim," he said. "Your equal is not in the Kingdom; though, in a short dash, the Countess' bay mare might put you to your speed."
"Very likely," said Aymer, "but I will wager there is none in England can beat him from the Solway to Land's End."
Dacre smiled—"I would rather share the bet than take it."