He controlled himself and looked at Connor with an almost wistful defiance.
"I hold to this," he said. "If you can bring Glani to your hand, he is yours while you stay in the Garden—for my part, I shall find another mount."
Connor slipped his right hand into his pocket and crushed the little root against the palm.
"Come hither, Glani," commanded the master. The stallion came up behind David's chair, looking fearlessly at the stranger.
"Now," said David with scorn. "This is your time."
"I accept it," replied Connor.
He drew his hand from his pocket, and leaning over the table, he looked straight into the eye of the stallion. But in reality, it was only to bring that right hand closer; the wind was stirring behind him, and he knew that it wafted the scent of the mysterious root straight to Glani.
"That is impossible," said David, following the glance of Connor with a frown. "A horse has no reasoning brain. Silence cannot make him come to you."
"However," said Connor carelessly, "I shall not speak."
The master set his teeth over unuttered words, and glancing up to reassure himself, his face altered swiftly, and he whispered: