"Foul play, foul play," cried my young master, "my beauty, my pride," and throwing his arms round my neck he hugged me for the second time that afternoon. "I'm proud of you, my handsome young prince—Why has he such an odd name as Fetlar, Captain?"
"Because Fetlar is the island in the Shetlands where Arabian ponies have been crossed with the native breed. Look at this little fellow. He is a wonderful combination of his gentle Scottish forbears and the fine Arabian stock. Note his brilliant prominent eyes, his wise air, refined bearing and short, strong neck."
"Arabian blood," repeated the boy, and he began to repeat in a dreamy voice, the lines of "The Arab to His Favourite Steed."
"My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck and dark and fiery eye."
Mr. Devering with a deeply gratified air listened to the boy as he repeated the whole of the touching poem, then he turned on his heel and led us to the smooth wide road running along the edge of the lake.
Dallas was staring at his retreating back in a strange way, and suddenly he ran after him.
"I have a queer feeling about you, sir. You don't seem a stranger to me. You call up something that happened when I was a little boy."
"What was it?" asked Mr. Devering over his shoulder.