"Your contrada is small and has won few Palios. No?"
Again the young man agreed.
"How sad for you, but...." the Signore waved his arms to heaven, "think how sweet your frenzy if a horse owned by you should win, even for another contrada!"
"A thousand times I thank you, Signor Busisi, but I never buy the cat in the bag."
"But, Celli! You do not have to buy the cat in the bag. This Farfalla by Sans Souci is here, right here in Siena! You have only to look!"
Respecting Signor Busisi as he did, Doctor Celli went early the next morning to see Farfalla. She was stabled temporarily in an old, dank warehouse used for storing ox hides. As he left the sunlight and crossed the doorsill, he stood blinking among the flies and the smells of dried blood and brine. A chill went through him. Out of the shadowy darkness the figure of the mare loomed like a gray ghost. Suddenly she scented the stranger and reared into the air, as if she would pitch him heels over head if he tried to mount. Then she retreated into a corner, her ears laid flat, her nostrils snorting, her lips drawn back.
