The next day he took the child with him on a drive of many leagues, through the frozen highways winding through the frosted forests under the huge snow-covered range of the Glöckner mountains. Bela was in raptures; the grand black Russian horses, whose speed was as the wind, were much more to his taste than the sedate and solemn Spanish asses. When they returned, and Sabran lifted him out of the sledge in the twilight, the child kissed his hand.
'Bela loves you,' he said timidly.
'Why do you?' said his father, surprised and touched. 'Because you are your mother's child?'
Bela did not understand. He said, after a moment of reflection:
'Bela is afraid, when you are angry; very afraid. But Bela does love you.'
Sabran laid his hand on the child's shoulder. 'I shall never be angry if Bela obey his mother, and never pain her. Remember that.'
'He will remember,' said Bela. 'And may he go with the big black horses very soon again?'
'Your mother's horses are just as big, and just as black. Is it not the same thing to go with her?'
'No. Because she takes Bela often; you never.'
'You are ungrateful,' said Sabran, in the tone which always alarmed and awed the bold, bright spirit of his child. 'Your mother's love beside mine is like the great mountain beside the speck of dust. Can you understand? You will when you are a man. Obey her and adore her. So you will best please me.'