7
Margoro stood at the pen again. He no longer wore shoes and his footwear had holes in its toes. The precious robe was dirty and torn at the hem. At least for the moment it didn’t seem to bother him, because he stared with shining eyes at the grazing horses.
Only when Nanja stood directly next to him did he take note of her with a quick glance. Then he turned back to the horses.
“You’ll need footwear to get up the slope.” Nanja did not care to stifle a gloating grin; she had not forgiven him for his conduct the day before.
“But why?” He watched the horses with breathless ecstasy, his mouth half open. “One of these wonderful creatures will carry me. And on that mighty black one over there, I’ll join the race myself!” He looked so triumphant as if he had already won it. But against the
