Had I the skill of an artist, I should love to draw his face as he looked into mine. It was strong and firm and purposeful, but the gray eyes softened into almost womanly tenderness.
"Why, Jack," said he, shifting the reins and laying a hand on my shoulder, "you're quite a man! Your mother would be proud of you!"
"Have you seen her?" I asked.
"Yes; all's well at home. But we'll talk of that later on. So you've turned Indian, eh?"
"It's better than living in a cell!"
"So it is; and you didn't go down in the ship, after all?"
"No; but I must tell you the story when you've had something to eat. Give your horse to this youngster, and now come on to Quilca's hut; you must be tired."
"I was," replied he, "but the sight of you woke me up. I wondered if you'd be waiting to see the braves come home. That Quilca of yours is a born soldier. He'd make a good general if they didn't train him!"
He rattled on, and I listened, glad just to hear the sound of his voice, without reference to what he said.
Quilca bade us welcome to the hut, and his womenfolk brought in the food and drink they had prepared.