I had tried the feeling of it once at a friend's wedding, and had been far from happy, though my horse enjoyed the romp and often tried to start it afterwards when there was no occasion.

Remembering Abdul Hamid and his desire for praise that day, I said: 'There is only one good horseman here--Abdul Hamid, the son of the Sheykh Mustafa.

All the rest of us, compared with him, are mere pedestrians.' I pointed out the youth in question to my neighbour, who was a man of power in the mountains, and he praised the beauty of his form on horseback.
'By Allah, right is with thee,' he assented.

'There is none but he.' Away they went--Jinblats, Talhuks, and Abdul Meliks--all in clean white turbans, with coloured cloaks a-stream upon the breeze, on horses gorgeously caparisoned.

We waited half an hour--in silence, as it seemed; and then we heard the noise of their return, the shouts, the firing.