"A strange sleeping-place, you should say rather, senor—yet not a bad one," said Quentin, laughing, and willing to conciliate the stranger, who closed his book after quietly turning down a leaf to mark his place; "I crept in over night, and have slept there until now."
"Signs of a good digestion or a clear conscience."
"Of both, I hope, thank Heaven."
"I am indifferently provided with either; yet I can breakfast on this poor crust, and be thankful to God and our Blessed Lady for it."
"I can give you something better, Senor Portuguese," said Quentin, unbuttoning his havresack.
"Muchos gracias," replied the other; "but remember, senor, that I am a Castilian, and in Spain we have a belief that a bad Spaniard makes a tolerably good Portuguese."
"I beg pardon, senor, but your dress——"
"My dress!" interrupted the other, with a sardonic grin; "oh, por el vida del Satanos, the less you say about that the better. I was not wont to sport such a costume when rendering Virgil into Castilian, and Las Comedias de Calderon into Latin, in the Arzobispo College at old Salamanca."
"A student?"
"Perhaps—it was as might be," replied the other, with sudden reserve; "and you are——"