It was all Giorgio could do to break away from the man and his dream. With their final handshake the herder for the first time became mute. Wistfully, he watched Giorgio mount Gaudenzia and rein her out onto the road. When at last he found his voice, he cupped his hands and called out after them: "Magnifica!"
In Siena, too, the mare created admiration, but it was thinned with doubts and forebodings. Entering the city through the Arch of Porta Romana in the early evening, Giorgio could feel at once the general air of agitation. The usual flow of promenaders had given way to excited knots of men choking the traffic. Bruco! Oca! Onda! Tartuca! The names of the contradas punctuated the talk. And town eyes were staring his way.
"What a beautiful beast goes there!" a voice said. And the same voice asked, "Boy, where did you get her? What are you going to do with her?"
Giorgio turned and saw a grizzle-headed old man, the center of a group. "It's a long story, Signore," he answered. "She used to be Farfalla, but now she—"
The man did not let him finish. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Can this be Farfalla returned from the dead?"
And another said, "A fine parade horse she would make. But for the race?" The shoulders owning the voice shrugged.
And then Giorgio overheard, "Would you wish to draw her for your contrada?"
A whole chorus answered, "No! No!" It was as if her tortured limping in last year's Palio was a memory too fresh to be wiped out.
Giorgio himself flinched at the recollection. He touched his heels to Gaudenzia and hurried her through the crowd. "How they feel about you, I do not care," he told himself. "It is better so. Popular horses are nearly killed by too many sweets, too much petting and pulling of tail-hairs for souvenir. I believe, and the Chief believes!"