"How did the Emperor ride, sir?" the barber asked.
"Badly. He did not know how to fall off, and so he never fell off."
"Had he fine horses? He must have had fine horses!"
"On the day when he gave me the cross I noticed his beast. It was a white mare. It had its ears very far apart, a deep saddle, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, prominent knees, projecting flanks, oblique shoulders, and a strong crupper. It was a little above fifteen hands high."
"A fine horse," said the barber.
"It was His Majesty's beast."
The barber felt that after this remark a little silence was befitting; then he went on,—
"The Emperor was wounded only once, I believe, sir?"
The old soldier replied, with the calm and sovereign accent of the man who has felt wounds,—
"In the heel, at Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on that day. He was as clean as a halfpenny."