MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



that on his return from the Mosque, driving 

 himself behind two white Arab staUions, it 

 seemed that we were old friends. 



The Sultan is, after all, just a man; a frail, 

 elderly man, enjoying, I should say, the best 

 possible life under such conditions. Uncon- 

 sciously he rather shrank from the gaze of so 

 many hungry eyes, though he bore a kindly ex- 

 pression mingled with a certain degree of fear. 

 He looked like a combination of the late Nel- 

 son Dingley, of Maine, and Mr. Nathan 

 Strauss, of New York. I can say this with 

 all due respect to the three concerned. The 

 Sultan's forehead is a thoughtful one, although 

 his fez prevented me from seeing how high it 

 was. His eyes and eyebrows, while showing 

 the strain under which he lives, also show that 

 he is a kind father, and would, if permitted, 

 be a kindly home man. His face is thin and 

 frail ; his beard is carelessly kept. One of his 

 eyebrows strays back of his eyebrow bone, al- 

 most into his temple. As his carriage arrived 

 at the Mosque, the generals fairly bowed to the 

 ground. He climbed out as most men of six- 

 ty-four years would. His children greeted 

 him, and he turned to admire the smaller one. 



[40] 



