Even the yearlings in the big paddock were still. They stood together not far from the fence, their heads up and eyes sharp.

Inside the cab Henry’s body suddenly stiffened against the back of his seat as if for support after a staggering blow. His hands shook and he sought to steady them by gripping the wheel even harder. Beside him Alec’s face was as pale as his own.

“It couldn’t be,” Henry said hoarsely. “It’s not possible.”

“But it is,” Alec said. “Except for color and size they’re models of him. They’re the Black all over again!”

When Alec and Henry climbed the paddock fence the yearlings moved toward them rather than away from them. There was no doubt that the colts had been well handled, but the two horsemen weren’t interested in the yearlings’ stable manners. Only the glistening bodies held their attention and the two men missed nothing. Two of the yearlings were dark brown, almost black, and the third was a golden-yellow chestnut.

Henry said, “Tell me what I’m seein’ and I won’t believe you.”

Alec answered, “In conformation they’re everything we’ve tried to breed … and haven’t.”

Like begets like was the adage but never had the Black sired such models of himself as these three colts from Spain. They made a picture worthy of the work of a great painter or sculptor. Even then it is doubtful if a master could have caught their fineness of features and form.

The yearlings raised their heads high, eyes alert. There was a slight movement of a bird directly to their rear and they seemed aware of it without moving their heads.

Henry said, “Like him they don’t miss much.”

Alec said nothing. Nor did he follow Henry as the trainer walked around the yearlings. In all the breeding they’d done at Hopeful Farm no colt or filly had yet inherited the absolute refinement of the Black’s head. Alec had taken it for granted, as many horsemen did, that when there is a mixture of blood the head of the newborn colt or filly is almost always the same as that of the less beautiful type. Where then could these colts have come from in Spain? Who owned them and, of even more importance, what was their breeding?

Alec studied again their dish-faced profiles, with the wide foreheads bulging like shields between their eyes and ears and running part way down the nasal bone. Here could be seen the same concave hollowness as in the Black. Their nostrils, too, were his—long and delicate. Their muzzles were so small Alec could have cupped each one in his hand. The ears were tiny and delicate, pointing inwards and, now that they were pricked up, almost touching at the tips.

Henry said, “Look over here, Alec, an’ get away from their heads. You don’t ride heads.”

Alec obeyed the trainer and Henry continued, “The lines of the shoulder and quarters are his. So are the hocks.”

“And the fetlocks and pasterns,” Alec added.

“No,” Henry disagreed, “not quite. They’re almost too delicate an’ not to my liking. But they’re goin’ to be big horses and nobody’ll know it until they stand beside ’em. It’s amazing that …” Henry’s eyes left the horses for the house beyond.

“John could tell us who bred them,” Alec suggested.

“More important is who sired them,” Henry answered. “A stallion that can stamp his get to look almost like our horse could be mighty valuable. In fact it’s almost like … well, what I mean is …” He stopped and their eyes met.

Alec said, “It couldn’t be the Black’s sire, Henry. You know that as well as I do. He’s dead.”

“A lot of people are goin’ to wonder about that when they see these colts in the ring at Saratoga,” said Henry.