... But if he were only sure
that none would!
Outside horses were stamping, his escort, seven Arab horses with
seven Arabs from the desert, or thereabout, in high-pummelled
saddles, wearing white bournous, their brown, lean hands grasping
long-barrelled guns with small carven stocks. The white Arab which
Owen had purchased yesterday waited, the saddle empty; and, looking
at him before mounting, Owen thought the horse the most beautiful
thing he had ever seen, more like an ornament than a live thing, an
object of luxury rather than of utility. Was he really going to ride
this horse for many hours? To do so seemed like making a drudge of
some beautiful woman. The horse's quarters curved like a woman's, a
woman's skin was hardly finer, nor were a woman's wrists and hands,
though she cared for them ever so much, shaping them with files, and
polishing them with powders, more delicate than the fetlock and hoof
of this wonderful horse. Nor was any woman's eye more beautiful, nor
any woman's ears more finely shaped; and the horse's muzzle came to
such a little point that one would have been inclined to bring him
water in a tumbler. The accoutrements were all Arab; and Owen
admired the heavy bits, furnished with many rings and chains, severe
curbs, demanding the lightest handling, without being able to guess
their use.
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