“If I thought I might tumble I would set out at once. Fear is a complete stranger to me; but I have heard of it so often that I should be anxious to make its acquaintance.”
“You are fatigued with your day’s work, perhaps?”
“Offer me an opponent worthy of my sword, and you shall see if it is possible to weary Roland.”
The angel bowed, and prepared to spring into his saddle again. The attention of the Count of Mans was attracted by Borak, who fretted, pranced, champed his bit, and pawed the ground, impatient to return to his celestial stable.
“What a fine animal!” said Roland, admiringly.
In truth, one rarely sees one so handsome. Borak was a fine-limbed, high-standing horse, strong in frame, and with a coat as glossy as marble which is constantly laved by a fountain. His colour was saffron, with one hair of gold for every three of tawny; his ears were restless, pointed like a reed; his eyes large, and full of fire; his nostrils wide and steaming, with a white star on his forehead, a neck gracefully arched, and decked with a mane soft and silky enough to make a young girl envious. He had a long, thick tail, that swept the ground.
“It is the Prophet’s favourite mount. He has sent it in your especial honour.”
Roland was touched at the delicate attention.
“I wished,” continued the angel, “to bring you some quieter animal; but Mahomet said you were the best rider he knew, and he was sure you would be able to master it. At the same time,” added Namous, treacherously, “if it be that which stops you, I can provide you with other means of transport.”
The Count of Mans simply shrugged his shoulders, and by way of answer leaped into the saddle—despite the weight of his armour—without setting foot in stirrup, or putting hand to mane. Borak swerved an instant, then dashed into space, scaling the cloud-mountains at full gallop. The angel spread his wings, and took the lead.