Alcatraz

The west wind came over the Eagles, gathered purity from the evergreen slopes of the mountains, blew across the foothills and league-wide fields, and came at length to the stallion with a touch of coolness and enchanting scents of far-off things. Just as his head rose, as the breeze lifted mane and tail, Marianne Jordan halted her pony and drew in her breath with pleasure. For she had caught one flash of perfection from the chestnut in the corral, and those far-seeing eyes called to mind the Arab belief.

Says the Sheik: “I have raised my mare from a foal, and out of love for me, she will lay down her life; but when I come out to her in the morning, when I feed her and give her water, she still looks beyond me and across the desert. She is waiting for the coming of a real man. She is waiting for the coming of a true master out of the horizon!” Marianne had known thoroughbreds since she was a child. After coming West, she had become acquainted with mere “hoss-flesh,” but today for the first time, she felt that the horse is not meant by nature to be the servant of man but that its speed is meant to ensure it sacred freedom.

A moment later, she wondered how the thought had come to her. That glimpse of equine perfection had been an illusion built of spirit and attitude; when the head of the stallion fell, she saw the daylight truth: that this was either the wreck of a young horse or the sad ruin of a fine animal now grown old. He was a ragged creature with dull eyes and drooping lips. No comb had been among the tangles of mane and tail for an unknown period; no brush had smoothed his coat. It was once a rich red chestnut, but now it was sun-faded to the colour of sand. He was thin.