‘He is ugly.’

’He is the ugliest horse, cart-horse, nag, or courser, on this creation-side,’ said the old man, ’—­ugly enough to fright to death where he doth fail in his endeavour to kill.  The men are all mortal feared on him, for he do kick and he do bite like the living Satan.  He wonnot go in no cart, but there he do stand eating on his head off as fast as he can.  An’ the brute were mine, I would slay him; I would, in good sooth.’

‘An’ I had but time to cure him of his evil kicking!  I fear I must ever ride the last in the troop,’ said Richard.

’Why for sure, master, thee never will ride such a devil-pig as he to the wars!  Will Farrier say he do believe he take his strain from the swine the devils go into in the miracle.  All the children would make a mock of thee as thou did ride through the villages.  Look at his legs:  they do be like stile-posts; and do but look at his tail!’

‘Lead him out, Jacob, and let me see his head.’

’I dare not go nigh him, sir.  I be not nimble enough to get out of the way of his hoof.  ‘I be too old, master.’

Richard pulled on his thick buff glove and went straight into his stall.  The brute made a grab at him with his teeth, met by a smart blow from Richard’s fist, which he did not like, and, rearing, would have struck at him with his near fore-foot; but Richard caught it by the pastern, and with his left hand again struck him on the side of the mouth.  The brute then submitted to be led out by the halter.  And verily he was ugly to behold.  His neck stuck straight out, and so did his tail, but the latter went off in a point, and the former in a hideous knob.

‘Here is Jack!’ cried the old man.  ’He lets Jack ride him to the water.  Here, Jack!  Get thee upon the hog-back of Beelzebub, and mind the bristles do not flay thee, and let master Richard see what paces he hath.’

The animal tried to take the lad down with his hind foot as he mounted, but scarcely was he seated when he set off at a swinging trot, in which he plied his posts in manner astonishing.  Spirit indeed he must have had, and plenty, to wield such clubs in such a fashion.  His joints were so loose that the bones seemed to fly about, yet they always came down right.

‘He is guilty of “hypocrisy against the devil,"’ said Richard:  ’he is better than he looks.  Anyhow, if he but carry me thither, he will as well “fill a pit” as a handsomer horse.  I’ll take him.  Have you got a saddle for him?’

‘An’ he had not brought a saddle with him, thou would not find one in Gwent to fit him,’ said the old man.

Yet another day Richard found himself compelled to tarry—­which he spent in caparisoning Beelzebub to the best of his ability, with the result of making him, if possible, appear still uglier than before.