"Leave out all these idle words in your own praise," interrupted the Tarkaan. "It is 
enough to know that you took the child-and have had ten times the worth of his daily 
bread out of him in labour, as anyone can see. And now tell me at once what price you put 
on him, for I am wearied with your loquacity."
    
    "You yourself have wisely said," answered Arsheesh, "that the boy's labour has been 
to me of inestimable value. This must be taken into account in fixing the price. For if I 
sell the boy I must undoubtedly either buy or hire another to do his work."
    
    "I'll give you fifteen crescents for him," said the Tarkaan.
    
    "Fifteen!" cried Arsheesh in a voice that was something between a whine and a scream. 
"Fifteen! For the prop of my old age and the delight of my eyes! Do not mock my grey 
beard, Tarkaan though you be. My price is seventy."
    
    At this point Shasta got up and tiptoed away. He had heard all he wanted, for he had 
open listened when men were bargaining in the village and knew how it was done. He was 
quite certain that Arsheesh would sell him in the end for something much more than 
fifteen crescents and much less than seventy, but that he and the Tarkaan would take 
hours in getting to an agreement.
    
    You must not imagine that Shasta felt at all as you and I would feel if we had just 
overheard our parents talking about selling us for slaves. For one thing, his life was 
already little better than slavery; for all he knew, the lordly stranger on the great 
horse might be kinder to him than Arsheesh. For another, the story about his own 
discovery in the boat had filled him with excitement and with a sense of relief. He had 
often been uneasy because, try as he might, he had never been able to love the fisherman, 
and he knew that a boy ought to love his father. And now, apparently, he was no relation 
to Arsheesh at all. That took a great weight off his mind. "Why, I might be anyone!" he 
thought. "I might be the son of a Tarkaan myself-or the son of the Tisroc (may he live 
for ever) or of a god!"
    
    He was standing out in the grassy place before the cottage while he thought these 
things. Twilight was coming on apace and a star or two was already out, but the remains 
of the sunset could still be seen in the west. Not far away the stranger's horse, loosely 
tied to an iron ring in the wall of the donkey's stable, was grazing. Shasta strolled 
over to it and patted its neck. It went on tearing up the grass and took no notice of him.
    
    Then another thought came into Shasta's mind. "I wonder what sort of a man that 
Tarkaan is," he said out loud. "It would be splendid if he was kind. Some of the slaves 
in a great lord's house have next to nothing to do. They wear lovely clothes and eat meat 
every day. Perhaps he'd take me to the wars and I'd save his life in a battle and then 
he'd set me free and adopt me as his son and give me a palace and a chariot and a suit of 
armour. But then he might be a horrid cruel man. He might send me to work on the fields 
in chains. I wish I knew. How can I know? I bet this horse knows, if only he could tell 
me."
    
    The Horse had lifted its head. Shasta stroked its smooth-as-satin nose and said, "I 
wish you could talk, old fellow."
    
    And then for a second he thought he was dreaming, for quite distinctly, though in a 
low voice, the Horse said, "But I can."
    
    Shasta stared into its great eyes and his own grew almost as big, with astonishment.
    
    "How ever did you learn to talk?" he asked.
    
    "Hush! Not so loud," replied the Horse. "Where I come from, nearly all the animals 
talk."
    
    "Wherever is that?" asked Shasta.
    
    "Narnia," answered the Horse. "The happy land of Narnia-Narnia of the heathery 
mountains and the thymy downs, Narnia of the many rivers, the plashing glens, the mossy 
caverns and the deep forests ringing with the hammers of the Dwarfs. Oh the sweet air of 
Narnia! An hour's life there is better than a thousand years in Calormen." It ended with 
a whinny that sounded very like a sigh.
    
    "How did you get here?" said Shasta.
    
    "Kidnapped," said the Horse. "Or stolen, or captured whichever you like to call it. I 
was only a foal at the time. My mother warned me not to range the Southern slopes, into 
Archenland and beyond, but I wouldn't heed her. And by the Lion's Mane I have paid for my 
folly. All these years I have been a slave to humans, hiding my true nature and 
pretending to be dumb and witless like their horses."
    
    "Why didn't you tell them who you were?"
    
    "Not such a fool, that's why. If they'd once found out I could talk they would have 
made a show of me at fairs and guarded me more carefully than ever. My last chance of 
escape would have been gone."
    
    "And why-" began Shasta, but the Horse interrupted him.
    
    "Now look," it said, "we mustn't waste time on idle questions. You want to know about 
my master the Tarkaan Anradin. Well, he's bad. Not too bad to me, for a war horse costs 
too much to be treated very badly. But you'd better be lying dead tonight than go to be a 
human slave in his house tomorrow."
    
    "Then I'd better run away," said Shasta, turning very pale.
    
    "Yes, you had," said the Horse. "But why not run away with me?"
    
    "Are you going to run away too?" said Shasta.
    
    "Yes, if you'll come with me," answered the Horse. "This is the chance for both of 
us. You see if I run away without a rider, everyone who sees me will say "Stray horse" 
and be after me as quick as he can. With a rider I've a chance to get through. That's 
where you can help me. On the other hand, you can't get very far on those two silly legs 
of yours (what absurd legs humans have!) without being overtaken. But on me you can