His present “dance” continued until he was tired; then he held out his hand for an alms.
“No, poor Pablo. I have nothing to give you. Our father isn’t with us. How came you here?”
He muttered something which Carlos could not understand but Carlota’s sympathy interpreted.
“The storm? Yes, I know, we were in it, too. There! Don’t shrug your shoulders any more—you make me cold to see you! Yet, you look well. I hope you aren’t hungry, Pablo, as we are.”
“Ha!” He pulled a crust from his ragged pocket and offered it to her; but it was black from contact with the dirty cloth and, faint though she was, she couldn’t touch it. She could only look enviously at Benoni, who had already nibbled a space in the grass. That, at least, was clean. If she could but eat it, too!
“No? Hmm;” said Pablo, shaking his head in satisfaction and returning the crust whence it came.
Then the girl asked:
“Pablo, can’t you show us a place where there are berries? Remember the Señor Manuel, Don Adrian? He is your friend.”
At the question a new expression stole into the beclouded face and, taking Carlota’s small brown hand in his dirty paw, he gently stroked it. All the good which had ever come into his life had come through “Don Adrian” and the dead “Lady of Refugio.” He remembered. Such as Pablo do not easily forget. Once—he didn’t know when—but he remembered, he had been very ill. The fever had burned in his veins and he had lain upon the mesa while the sun had scorched him to death.
Then, in time, there had come between him and the sun the shadow of a kindly face. The face had bent above him and there had been no shrinking in it. Pablo was used to seeing people shrink away when he drew near. This brooding Señor had not done so. He had put a wet cloth on the hot head—he had put the suffering “Simple” on his own horse—he had himself walked a long way. They had come to Refugio, to a great, white, cool room, where an “Angel” in a white robe had ministered to the sick one. Pablo had recovered, but—the “Angel” had died.