Very well, then--Andrew P. Hay was a Centaur--a CENTAUR. He had descended from the pure blood of the old Greek Centaurs. The race, when the belief in the Greek mythology had waned before the spreading light of Christianity, finding the fact of its existence no longer accepted with the old unquestioning faith, and too proud to longer impose its presence on a society sceptical of its reality, retired to a remote island to carry on its existence unseen by mankind; and there its successive generations had appeared and died, until--a few years before the present date--the last survivor paced, with downcast hoof,[2] the deserted paddocks of his sires.[3] [2] "Downcast hoof," though an unusual, is a good phrase. [3] "Sires" is a well-chosen word in this connection. The loneliness of his condition began to prey upon his mind. He had but a single companion in the secluded upland valleys of that deserted island where his forefathers had lived during so many centuries; this companion was his servant, or valet--he also being the sole survivor of _his_ race, the race of hippopaides, or stable boys; from time immemorial the bondmen of the Centaurs and their faithful attendants. The loneliness was becoming unbearable: concealed behind some crag of the mountains, the two would stand the whole day long watching for the smoke of the steamers which passed, hull down, to and from Constantinople and Smyrna. No vessel ever touched at their island. "Raiboskeles," said Philippos Chortophagos (that was the Centaur's name, excusable in a Greek), "this won't do! I can't stand it any longer. Shall we hurl ourselves from yonder pinnacle, you seated on my back, to fathomless doom, and end it?" "No, my lord!" said the boy, "I'm scratched for that event anyway; and what's more, _you_ won't go to the post either if _I_ can stop it! Think, my lord--what would your stable-companions, now passed away, have said about a fixture like that?" And the boy's eyes filled with tears as he mechanically took from his pocket a small curry-comb and drew it caressingly over the silky hide, while a low continuous hissing sound from between his lips testified to the depth of his sorrow. He was a good lad, tinged with the archaic stable-slang of Thessaly, fostered by constant reading of the _Rhodochroon Hen_, the ancient sporting-paper of the Centaurs. For a few moments Chortophagos gazed fixedly out to sea; then he said:-- "Raiboskeles, I cannot stay here. I shall go mad in this solitude. Let us leave this island and go among men. I know what you are about to say--they will not believe in my existence. I shall be forced to suffer the affront of being looked upon as a figment of superstition, of having my impossibility cast in my teeth--I wager that is what is on your tongue?" "No takers!" said the boy, emphatically. "Nevertheless, I prefer even that to the loneliness of this place. Besides, I might perhaps manage to conceal the difference in my form from those of men."