MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



their tiny spurs glisten from their boots, al- 

 though no stick horses are in sight. 



While all is still, a trumpet makes a loud, 

 long sound and swords and rifles, like one big 

 click from a tremendous clock, are brought 

 up to present arms; and then we hear from 

 up near the top of the Mosque a priest yelling 

 in a monotone, something that suggests a song, 

 or prayer of some wild desert tribe. Thou- 

 sands of soldiers veil at the same instant, as 

 if by some automatic process, the same words. 

 The sound makes you shudder with its wild 

 melody. 



An open carriage comes through the great 

 gates, which sparkle like gold as they are 

 swung open. Surrounding the carriage are 

 guards, with drawn swords and tightly 

 clenched fists. Hitched to the carriage are two 

 fine bay horses, with docked tails. Their coats 

 are as golden as their harness; they prance, 

 they need exercise. There, saluting in that 

 automatic way, rides the Sultan. In the seat 

 facing him is a ponderous man; I don't really 

 see him. I just see the reflections and high 

 lights. I know that his local color is white 

 and red and gold. They tell us that this large 

 glittering object is the Minister of War. At 



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