d then one of these quaint phrases would break
through his acquired diction, and they always bore home to David a sense
of that great world beyond the mountains. Matthew had often described
that world, but one of Abraham's odd expressions carried him in a breath
into cities filled with men.

"His absence is cheaply bought at the price of one mare," continued the
old servant soothingly.

"One mare of Rustir's blood! What is the sin for which the Lord would
punish me with the loss of Shakra? And I miss her as I would miss a
human face. But Benjamin will return with her. He did not ask for the
horse."

"He knew you would offer."

"He will not return?"

"Never!"

"Then I shall go to find him."

"It is forbidden."

Abraham sat down, cross-legged, and watched with impish self-content
while David strode back and forth in the patio. A far-off neighing
brought him to a halt, and he raised his hand for silence. The neighing
was repeated, more clearly, and David laughed for joy.

"A horse coming from the pasture to the paddock," said Abraham, shifting
uneasily.

The day was old and the patio was filled with a clear, soft light,
preceding evening.

"It is Shakra! Shakra, Abraham!"

Abraham rose.

"A yearling. It is too high for the voice of a grown mare."

"The distance makes it shrill. Abraham, Abraham, cannot I find her voice
among ten all neighing at once?"

"Then beware of Benjamin, for he has returned to take not one but all."

But David smiled at the skinny hand which was raised in warning.

"Say no more," he said solemnly. "I am already to blame for hearkening
to words against my brother Benjamin."

"You yourself had said that he tempted you."

Because David could find no ready retort he grew angry.

"Also, think of this. Your eyes and your ears are grown dull, Abraham,
and perhaps your mind is misted also."

He had gone to the entrance into the patio and paused there to wait with
a lifted head. Abraham followed and attempted to speak again, but the
last cruel speech had crushed him. He went out on the terrace, and
looking back saw that David had not a glance for him; so Abraham went
feebly on.

"I have become as a false prophet," he murmured, "and I am no more
regarded."

His life had long been in its evening, and now, at a step, the darkness
of old age fell about him. From the margin of the lake he looked up and
saw Connor ride to the patio.

David, at the entrance, clasped the hand of his