‘You seem to me a hero,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of real feeling, which, half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness. ‘I am and must ever be,’ said the stranger, ‘but a dreamer of dreams.’ Then going towards the window, and changing into a familiar tone as if to divert the conversation, he added, ‘What a delicious afternoon! I look forward to my ride with delight. You rest here?’ ‘No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep.’ ‘And I in the opposite direction.’ And he rang the bell, and ordered his horse. ‘I long to see your mare again,’ said Coningsby. ‘She seemed to me so beautiful.’ ‘She is not only of pure race,’ said the stranger, ‘but of the highest and rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is “the Daughter of the Star.” She is a foal of that famous mare, which belonged to the Prince of the Wahabees; and to possess which, I believe, was one of the principal causes of war between that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me, and I would not change her for her statue in pure gold, even carved by Lysippus. Come round to the stable and see her.’ They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh from the rain, but mild and exhilarating. The groom brought forth the mare. ‘The Daughter of the Star’ stood before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her master, and whither was she about to take him? Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was not curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a little, and then say: ‘I am sorry to part.’ ‘I also,’ said the stranger. ‘But life is constant separation.’ ‘I hope we may meet again,’ said Coningsby. ‘If our acquaintance be worth preserving,’ said the stranger, ‘you may be sure it will not be lost.’ ‘But mine is not worth preserving,’ said Coningsby, earnestly. ‘It is yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long mused.’ The stranger took the bridle of ‘the Daughter of the Star,’ and turning round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion. ‘Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,’ said Coningsby; ‘your actions should be heroic.’ ‘Action is not for me,’ said the stranger; ‘I am of that faith that the Apostles professed before they followed their master.’ He vaulted into his saddle, ‘the Daughter of the Star’ bounded away as if she scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had alike sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation. CHAPTER II.