“Or real estate agents,” he smiled back. “At least the valley is inhabited.—Torres, who’re your friends? From the way they regard you, one would think they were relatives of yours.”
Quite ignoring them, the three Lost Souls drew apart a slight distance and debated in low sibilant tones.
“Sounds like a queer sort of Spanish,” Francis observed.
“It’s medieval, to say the least,” Leoncia confirmed.
“It’s the Spanish of the conquistadores pretty badly gone to seed,” Torres contributed. “You see I was right. The Lost Souls never get away.”
“At any rate they must give and be given in marriage,” Francis quipped, “else how explain these three young huskies?”
But by this time the three huskies, having reached agreement, were beckoning them with encouraging gestures to follow across the valley.
“They’re good-natured and friendly cusses, to say the least, despite their sorrowful mug,” said Francis, as they prepared to follow. “But did you ever see a sadder-faced aggregation in your life? They must have been born in the dark of the moon, or had all their sweet gazelles die, or something or other worse.”
“It’s just the kind of faces one would expect of lost souls,” Leoncia answered.
“And if we never get out of here, I suppose we’ll get to looking a whole lot sadder than they do,” he came back. “Anyway, I hope they’re leading us to breakfast. Those berries were better than nothing, but that is not saying much.”