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    Suddenly a soft rustling noise behind him broke the terrible silence. It was made by the garments of Signor Achmet.
    “Your Majesty,” he began, hesitatingly. “May I speak?”
    “Speak out quickly,” the Sultan said, drawing his stiletto.
    Signor Achmet’s voice was hushed. “The horseboy, Agba, has no power of speech.”
    “What!”
    “Aye, sire.”
    Now even the horseboys gasped. They did not know that Agba was a mute. They remembered, now that they thought about it, that Agba talked with his fiery black eyes, his thin hands, his shoulders, his eyebrows, and with his silences.
    The Signor nodded his head. “The boy is a mute.”
    “Can he manage a horse?”
    “Aye, Your Majesty.”
    “Then I charge you to take him with you to the court of Versailles. A boy who cannot talk can spill no tales.” With a gesture of impatience he returned his stiletto to its sheath. Then he peered at the position of the sun and nodded a curt dismissal to Signor Achmet.
    Agba stood still. He felt he had no strength to move. But the audience was ended. Signor Achmet struck him lightly on the shoulder. With the groom and the horseboys he bowed low before the Sultan and walked backward out of the garden.
    As soon as they reached the outer gate, Agba freed the chameleon in his bosom. Then he listened for the footfalls of his little company. No longer did they go plop, plop, plop, plop. They were so light and springy they made no sound at all.
    The other horseboys broke into excited chatter as they started toward the stables. But Agba was thinking only of Sham.



8. Agba Measures Sham
    I T WAS almost sundown before Agba had a moment to measure Sham. With fast-beating heart he ran his hand along the horse’s back until he came to the tail. Then he stopped. One! he counted in his mind. He placed his left hand ahead alongside his right. Two! He crossed his right hand over his left. Three! He brought his left hand around to his right. Four! Each time he spread out his fingers to make his hand as broad as Signor Achmet’s.
    The count at the withers was fifteen. He leaned his head against Sham’s neck, afraid to go on.
    What if the count from withers to muzzle would be less than fifteen hands or only equal to fifteen? A thousand horriblethoughts flew into his mind. Sham left behind, Sham mistreated by another horseboy, a whip lashed across his body, spurs kicked into his ribs, the sand in his stall unchanged.
    Sham nudged Agba’s shoulder, scratching his nose on the boy’s coarse mantle. Agba straightened. He could put off the moment no longer. Signor Achmet would soon be here. “I will get to your corridor at sundown,” he had told Agba. “In all the royal stables there are but four bay stallions touched with gold. Already I have measured three. One qualifies. His hind part measures fifteen hands, his fore part eighteen.”
    Agba resumed his measuring. Fingers trembling, he placed his right hand on Sham’s withers. One! Left hand came alongside. Two! Right over left. Three! Left alongside right. Four!
    Right, left. Five, six.
    Twelve at the crest.
    Fifteen at the ears.
    Now over the poll and down the face. Right, left. Sixteen. Seventeen.
    Right, left. Eighteen. Nineteen.
    Nineteen at the upper lip!
    At that moment Agba felt the knotted stick on his shoulder. He wheeled around and faced the Signor.
    The Signor’s head was nodding up and down. “Aye,” he was saying. “This one is chosen. He measures one hand more than the best. His neck is made long to stretch out in running.”
    The Signor turned and was gone. Agba quickly closed the door of the stall behind him. Wild with excitement, he kissed the white spot on Sham’s heel. He sprang up on Sham’s back,and with his hands for a neck rein, he rode him around and around the stall until they both were dizzy.
    The seven days before their departure flew. Agba made a nosebag out of his turban to accustom Sham to the way he would have to eat on the overland journey to