“My dear,” it said, “that’s all you can expect of such people.”

There were men seated on the big elephants’ necks, their legs tucked comfortably behind the enormous flapping ears.  They looked mysterious and proud in their position.  They wore turbans and carried sticks with pointed iron spikes at the head, and when they came to the low entrance of the tent they prodded their huge beasts, which went down on their knees, painfully yet with a kind of sorrowful pride, and blundered through amidst the admiring murmur of the crowd.

“The way they manage them big brutes!” declared the lady with the feathered hat disconsolately.  “And there’s our George, a proper ’uman being, and can’t be got to do a thing—­nohow.”

The band inside had stopped, beaten in the hard-fought contest with its rival at the far end of the procession, which thereupon broke out into throaty triumphant trumpet blasts and exultant roll of drums.  Rufus clutched wildly at Robert’s sleeve.

“Oh, my word, just look at her!  Oh, my word!”

Robert craned forward, peering round the embonpoint of the man next him.  The procession now scarcely moved, and there was a space between the last elephant and the great coal-black horse that followed—­a wide, solemn space, that invited you to realize that this was the finest sight you had ever seen in your life.  He was indeed a splendid, terrifying creature.  As Rufus Cosgrave said loudly, he was not like a human horse at all.  One could imagine him having just burst out of hell, still breathing fire and smoke and rolling his eyes in the anguish of his bridled wickedness.  In the glare from the tent-door he gleamed darkly, a wild thing of black flames, and those in the front row of the crowd trod nervously on the toes of those behind, edging out of reach of his restless, dancing hoofs.  For it seemed impossible that the woman in the saddle should be really his master.  And yet she sat upright and unconcerned.  In its black, close-fitting habit, her supple body looked a living, vital part of the splendid beast.  She was his brain, stronger than his savage instinct, and every threatening move of his great limbs was dictated to him without a sound, almost without a gesture.  A touch of a slender, patent-leather boot set him prancing, an imperceptible twist of the wrist and he stood stock still, foam-necked and helpless.  It was a proud—­an awe-inspiring spectacle.  And it was not only her fearless strength.  She was fair and beautiful.  So Robert saw her.  He saw nothing else.  He gazed and gazed, heart-stricken.  He did not hear Rufus speak to him, or the band which was blaring out a Viennese waltz, an old thing, whistled and danced half to death long since, but which, having perhaps a spark of immortal youth left among the embers, had not lost its power to make the pulses quicken.  Indeed it even played a humble part in this great moment in Robert’s life.  Though he did not hear it, it poured emotion into the heated, dusty air.  It painted the tawdry show with richer colours.  It was the rider’s invisible retinue.  At a touch from her heel the horse danced to it, in perfect time, arching his great neck, and rolling his wild eyes.