"Two advise putting her down. At once."
"You have decided?"
"No. My thoughts seesaw—first one way, then the other. You observed her in the Palio, Signore. What would you say if she were now fretting in your stable instead of in mine?"
Signor Busisi's face was grave, deeply concerned. He made a steeple of his fingertips and looked under them as if he hunted there for the answer. "Mortals are quick to destroy," he said at last. Already he was ill of a heart condition, and being on the edge of death himself seemed to give him a wisdom beyond the common man. "It takes eleven months and five days for a horse to be born into this world," he said with a faraway look. "Why do we not give the mare the same number of months and days before we sentence her to die? Perhaps in that time she will prove her destiny."
There was a long silence between them. The old man got up, paced the room thoughtfully, then stood before the window. A blood-red sun was sinking behind the city wall. With his back to Doctor Celli he said, "You are not the first to come to me today concerning the fate of Farfalla."
"So? Who else?"
"The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards. You know him?"
"Si, si. The Chief is a man most compassionate. I once saw him on a cold, bitter day restore the fallen blanket to an old bony horse."
"But the Chief came only as agent."
"Agent?"