The men exchanged glances, eyeing each other with doubtful, questioning looks.
Giorgio pretended not to notice. He spoke with a bold sureness that surprised even himself. "If you please," he said, "I now make a poultice of flour and alum for the bruised place, and if you don't mind, we leave at once. It is sixty kilometers to Monticello and I must stop often to rest her."
The farmer disappeared to fetch the flour and alum, and Doctor Celli himself produced the bridle.
"She does not willingly take the bit," he said. "I will help you."
Giorgio smiled and shook his head. He led the mare inside her stable and cross-tied her to iron rings fastened to opposite walls. Then he saw that underneath her chin was a raw, red place. He thought a moment, and took from his pocket the rabbit's foot. Much as he prized it for a good luck charm, he skinned it and wrapped the soft fur about the chinstrap of the bridle.
"Now, Gaudenzia," he said as if he were talking to a small child, "with rabbit's fur the strap will not chafe the sore spot."
It took only a little firmness to slip the bit between her teeth and to adjust the throat latch. And she actually pushed her leg against Giorgio's hand while he bound the poultice in place.
For as long as he lived, Giorgio knew he would never forget this day. Of all the masters Gaudenzia had known, she had singled him out as the one to trust! Why else did she let him leap aboard without bolting? Why else did she travel the mountainous country with scarce any favoring of her hurt leg? Why else did she swivel her ears to pull in his talk, or a snatch of his song?
The trip took all day, with Giorgio walking up the hills and riding down. Whenever they came to a stream, he let her wade into it, let her paw and plash to her heart's content. It was a remedy Babbo had handed down. "One thing you must know about horses," he had said time and again. "Soak hurt feet and legs in mountain streams, and you leave behind the fever and the pain."