Florian by Felix Salten Page A

forward. Gallop! Cleaving in twain the surge of joy which had suddenly befallen him came the voice of his master. “Whoa!” And once again he felt the pressure against his lips. It had all happened in three or four seconds. He understood instantly, and obeyed the order without hesitation, altering his pace to a comfortable trot.
    He had never felt so good. The trappings on him did not hamper his running, gave him a sensation of ordered freedom too complicated for him to unravel but delightful notwithstanding. He was conscious of the hand of the driver, the turning of the wheels. The burden of the cart, which was hardly a burden at all, thrilled him. In one burst of gladness he reveled in his youth and in the power of his limbs. With loud snorts he drove the air from his lungs. Drops of foam fell right and left. His flanks grew moist, and sweat purled down his back and neck. Occasionally his gleaming eyes laughed down to Bosco who ran ahead of him and who only by strenuous exertions was keeping up the brisk pace.
    Florian enjoyed his debut in a world his ancestors had peopled in the service of men as trusted chargers in battle and attack, as saviors in peril and flight, as skilled and untiring companions at jousts and falconry, and on hunts and overland journeys; as carriers of messages, and as the pride of processions and parades. His heritage flamed within him. He served; he became a carrier, executant of a divine and adored will.
    Florian was happy.
    A half hour later the carriage rolled to a halt before the stable.
    â€œThis Florian is perfect!” the stud-master cried, throwing the reins to Anton and jumping down from the dashboard. “It’s unbelievable!”
    â€œIsn’t he?” Anton smiled happily, bending down to unbuckle the harness.
    â€œI have never seen anything like it! He runs as if he had carried harness for God knows how long. He knows everything himself, the least hint is sufficient. . . .”
    â€œYes, that’s Florian,” Anton agreed gravely.
    â€œHe doesn’t even try a gallop anymore . . . just trots . . . a beautiful, steady trot . . . he rolls along like a billiard ball. . . . Unbelievable!”
    Florian, led by Anton, stepped from the thill. “Yes,” Anton reiterated, “that’s Florian!”
    He threw a blanket over the steaming stallion and began to unharness him. As he removed the traces and the bit, Florian shook his head vehemently with relief.
    â€œLet him keep the bit,” the stud-master suggested. “So he’ll get used to it.”
    With his bare hand Anton brushed the lather from Florian’s heaving chest. “Oh, no . . . if you please, sir . . . he doesn’t need to get used to anything . . . not him . . . he just knows everything.”
    Bosco lay, utterly exhausted, where he had sunk down to rest, but his pointed ears kept him apprised of any developments. He had ample time to recuperate. Anton had brush and currycomb ready, and now stripped the blanket from his charge’s back and began to groom him.

Chapter Seven
    C APTAIN VON NEUSTIFT CAME again on a visit, this time alone.
    â€œWhere is her Grace, the countess?” Anton asked.
    â€œShe is in bed,” Neustift answered, and laughed when Anton showed concern. “Oh, no, my dear Pointner. Not sick! No, on the contrary! Yes, just think of it, we have a son, a very small son, a tiny mite of a son. Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria! Just a wee bit of flesh and already Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria . . . he is really cute.”
    Anton stammered congratulations.
    â€œPerhaps this is to be an important occasion for you, too.” The captain stood with his arms akimbo. “Do you know what brings me here today? I want to buy Florian . . . if I can get him.”
    Anton shook his head. “Florian you will not get, Herr Rittmeister ,” he