"Well, you can't believe it, but ill luck trails her like smoke from fire. Already she has four colts of no account."
"Four!"
The father nodded. "The first time she got twins, but they died before lifting their heads above the straw."
"And then?"
"Next time her colt is crippled in foaling and has to be put down."
Giorgio stopped eating and sat silent. After a moment he said, "And the fourth colt? Dead, too?"
"No. Not him. He will make big stout plow horse when he is grown. He is no more like Farfalla than bull is like deer."
The mother, who had been listening all this while, now plucked at Giorgio's sleeve. "Farfalla is the one...." she whispered softly. "She is the one born in Magliano Toscano on the day Bianca...."
Giorgio felt the hairs on his skin prickle. So this Arab mare, fastened with ropes to the traces of a shabby cart, was Bianca's successor! He nodded and smiled wistfully in remembrance.