"I fear it meaneth that I am not as strong as I had I hoped."
"Ah!" said Cabrera sympathetically; "that climate out yonder doth touch—"
"Climate!" echoed Montoro with momentary scorn. "Tush, man! I speak not of climates and bodily strength. It is of the moral powers I was meditating when you caught me in that sigh. I started from our native land eighteen years ago, confident, with a boy's confidence, that a couple of years or so—say half-a-dozen at most—were to send me back to my country so berobed and begirt with gold and glory that I should dazzle all beholders, and walk back to my ancestral halls over the backs of crowds of humble suppliants."
Cabrera laughed gaily.
"Ay, Diego. How like that was to a boyish dream. But now?"
"But now," said Montoro with a shrug of the shoulders, but betraying more sadness than he wished—"but now, there is little need for thee or any one to question. Now, as thou knowest, I return to my mother, able, indeed, henceforth to keep her and myself in bread; but for the olives and the oil and the wine, well, for my purse's length I will trust that they reach not up to famine prices so long as the dear mother lives."
"And where dost thou propose that that same living shall be?" asked Cabrera, with a curious gleam in his eyes, over which the lids were somewhat lowered for concealment.
But such care was a little superfluous. Montoro was so taken up with regrets which for once would have their way, that he paid small heed to his companion's looks. He was thinking of his mother's face, and wondering whether he should read any mute reproach for empty-handedness in the sweet eyes that lighted it. But he had heard the question, and he answered it—
"Have I never yet told thee, my Juan, of the humble home I have long since provided for my mother in the little town of El Cuevo? I hope to join her there within the next fortnight, and there I suppose I shall end my days."
"And there I suppose that thou'lt do nothing of the sort," responded the captain with a downright bluntness, that acted as a wholesome tonic to his friend. "Why, Toro, I suppose not that yon wretched little town of El Cuevo is big enough to hold above half-a-score of beggars altogether. How, in the name of St. Jago, dost suppose that, with thy wide sympathies, thou wilt be able to exist in such a narrow field?"