He has a gentle heart, she said. It is simply that he is homesick and such a large man.
The farmer went away and I ran over to my cousin Mourad's house.
He was sitting under a peach tree, trying to repair the hurt wing of a young robin which could not fly. He was talking to the bird.
What is it? he said.
The farmer, John Byro, I said. He visited our house. He wants his horse. You've had it a month. I want you to promise not to take it back until I learn to ride.
It will take you a year to learn to ride, my cousin Mourad said.
We could keep the horse a year, I said. My cousin Mourad leaped to his feet.
What? he roared. Are you inviting a member of the Garoghlanian family to steal? The horse must go back to its true owner. When? I said.
In six months at the latest, he said.
He threw the bird into the air. The bird tried hard, almost fell twice, but at last flew away, high and straight.
Early every morning for two weeks my cousin Mourad and I took the horse out of the barn of the deserted vineyard where we were hiding it and rode it, and every morning the horse, when it was my turn to ride alone, leaped over grape vines and small trees and threw me and ran away. Nevertheless, I hoped in time to learn to ride the way my cousin Mourad rode.
One morning on the way to Fetvajian's deserted vineyard we ran into the farmer John Byro who was on his way to town. Let me do the talking, my cousin Mourad said. I have a way with farmers.
Good morning, John Byro, my cousin Mourad said to the farmer.
The farmer studied the horse eagerly.
Good morning, sons of my friends, he said. What is the name of your horse?
My Heart, my cousin Mourad said in Armenian.
A lovely name, John Byro said, for a lovely horse. I could swear it is the horse that was stolen from me many weeks ago. May I look into its mouth?