From somewhere he found the strength to speak, if only in a loud whisper.

“Not all of them have wings,” he said, waving his feeble hands toward the band. “This is true not only for the horses of Abu Ishak but for all the wealthy lords of our land. Our mounts are no longer as swift as falcons. No longer can they gallop a whole day through. They are no longer fit for the great conquests of our land.”

“But our tribe is the fiercest of all!” the young man cried. “We have the finest horses in the Rub‘ al Khali. No one can defeat us. It is as true now as in the days of your youth, Great Father. Our lives depend on the speed and stamina of our mounts, and none can match our horses.”

“It is only the black one who can save us,” the old man said. “Look closely and you will see.”

The young man had no trouble finding the colt. He was the only black yearling in the small band. He was taller and more athletically built than the others, and his long raven tail reached almost to the ground while his forelock fell to the tip of his nose. Yes, there was a difference in body and size and something else as well, something difficult to understand. It was as if the other yearlings—bay, roan and chestnut—already had welcomed him as their leader.

Finally, more to get the old man’s attention than anything else, the young herder said, “Perhaps you see more in him than I, Great Father. He is much too big-boned and large-framed for me. He is too tall and gangling, too much on the ungainly side. To my eyes he is not a perfect horse.”

“The perfect horse cannot be found anywhere, my son, and some of the almost perfect ones can’t run far. That you will learn in time. But look again and tell me what else you see.”

The young man laughed. “I see a black coat that despite the icy winds is rough and sun-bleached, Great Father.”

“More than that, my son, if you are to take my place when I am gone.”

“His head is small, though not too small for the rest of him,” the young man said. “I will admit, Great Father, that his eyes are very large and clear, with a strong look of boldness. He is an intelligent colt, Great Father, that I can see.”

“And his neck?” the old man persisted. “Is it not the right length, the right proportion? Does it not suit the angle of his shoulder blade, sloping from point of shoulder to middle of withers? Does that not account for his long, swinging gait when he walks? See how he is overstriding, hind feet extending beyond the front feet?”

“Yes, Great Father, I see all that. But my eyes are not accustomed to such largeness. The desert sands will swallow the tremendous bulk of his body.”

“You are not looking at him with a horseman’s eyes,” the old man said resignedly. “You do not see that which I see.”

“You have the eyes of the Prophet, Great Father, that I know,” the young man replied. “But they are growing weary if you see such greatness in the black colt. He is different, I know, but that does not mean greatness. He walks alone. See how he has moved off by himself.