José Medina held out his hand suddenly with a great burst of cordial, intimate laughter.
"Yes, we were companions in those days. You helped me to drive my carts up into the mountains. Good!" He patted Hillyard on the shoulder. "That makes a difference, eh? Come, we will go in again. Now I shall help you."
That reserve, that intense reserve of the Spaniard who so seldom admits another into real intimacy, and makes him acquainted with his private life, was down now. Hillyard had won. José Medina's house and his chattels were in earnest at Martin Hillyard's disposal. The two men went back through the house into a veranda above the steep fall of garden and cliff, where there were chairs in which a man could sit at his ease.
José Medina fetched out a box of cigars.
"You can trust these. They are good."
"Who should know if you do not?" answered Hillyard as he took one; and again José Medina patted him on the shoulder, but this time with a gurgle of delight.
"El pequeño Martin," he said, and he clapped his hands. From some recess of the house his wife appeared with a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray.
"Now we will talk," said José Medina, "or rather I will talk and you shall listen."
Hillyard nodded his head, as he raised the glass to his lips.
"I have learnt in the last years that it is better to listen than to talk," said he. "Salut!"