MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



down and our stallions and mares were being 

 led off. 



My dear old Bedouin brother, Haffez, knew 

 that I liked the farmer Bedouin best, but he 

 came to me, resting his weight on my shoulder 

 as he leaned on me and holding Ameene by 

 the other hand. He had one request. He 

 asked that when I bade Hashem Bey good-bye, 

 I should wish him success in his wars. That, 

 of course, was perfectly reasonable, and we 

 both hoped that it would soothe Hashem, for 

 he was still cross about the "Pride of the 

 Desert." 



And the time had nearly arrived to start; 

 the last coffee tune was being played and the 

 Maneghi Sbeyel stallion was saddled, waiting. 

 Hundreds of Anezeh horsemen were bidding 

 him good-bye, and tying blue beads in his mane 

 and tail, to keep off the evil eye. Akmet Haf- 

 fez gave me the signal and we all arose. 

 Hashem Bey knew, of course, that we were 

 leaving. He walked out from under the tent 

 where the seal-brown stallion stood fretting to 

 join the other horses. I took the Sheikh by 

 the hand, and told him, through the interpreter, 

 that I hoped he would live a long and happy 

 life, and that when he had to die he would die 



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