The morning had broken red through the mists that lay thick along the valley as they gained the top of the hill up which they had been climbing. The road was already visible, winding through a deep gorge, and skirted by great masses of rock, green with ferns and bramble. Here and there scattered through the uplands lay a farm steading, surrounded by its stretch of tilth and orchard close. But no sound of morning labour could be heard. The fields were lying waste and untilled, and the homesteads stood deserted. The clank of the horses hoofs made a melancholy music in the silence. The life and movement of the little troop brought into still greater relief the desolation round them. Macpherson halted on the top of the hill, and dismounting loosened his horse´s girths. Then he removed the saddle and taking off his gloves, began to rub down the charger. “That is my prince of steeds,” he said, contemplating his task and caressing the glossy neck with pride and affection; “nearly four hours´ hard riding and never turning a hair! An old soldier, my young friend,” he continued, turning to Gervase, “learns a good many things on his rough journey through the world. He learns to weigh a prince´s promises and favours, the strength of friendship and the worth of love. And he finds they are all vanity, even the vanity of vanities, as the Hebrew hath it. But he grows to love his horse. Together they have faced the scathe of the battle, and the privations of the march. Often and often this sleek skin hath been my pillow, and but for him these useless bones had been whitening on the sandy plains of Utrecht, or the rolling uplands of the Maas. And for beauty--you youths go mad for beauty--is there aught in the world to compare with him for comeliness? That little head and graceful neck, those swift strong legs and deep shoulders fashioned as if by a cunning sculptor--there is perfect beauty. And he is faithful even to death. He will carry me till he drops and leave a royal stable at the whistle of his homeless master. I tell you, young sir, there is nothing in the world like a noble horse and the joy of battle in a righteous cause.” “In truth,” said Gervase, “you are proud of your horse with reason, but I trust there are other things in the world one may love with as good cause.” “Aye,” answered the other bitterly, “you are young, and youth is full of hope and trust. The man you call your friend cajoles and tricks you, and the woman whose favour is the breath of your nostrils, deserts you at the first whisper of misfortune. These things are of the world and they endure for an hour; the son of perdition baits his traps with them, but the man whose hope is fixed, learns to shun them as a snare.” “I have been taught otherwise,” said Gervase, “and I have had no reason to question what I have learnt. I have no trick of speech, but I hold by love and friendship.”