“To a man, yes, and Mexico is a man’s land.”
“Ay, it must be yours as well,––beautiful that thou art!” murmured Valencia adoringly. “You should not give yourself a name of sadness, for this is our Señor El Pajarito, who is both gay and of honesty. He,––with God,––is your protection, and harm shall not be yours.”
Doña Jocasta reached out and touched kindly the bent head of the Indian woman.
“As you will, mother. With hope and a singer for a shield, even a prison would not be so bad, El Pajarito, eh? Do you make songs––or sing them, señor?”
“Neither,––I am only a lucky bluff. My old partner and I used to sing fool things to the mules, and as we could out-bray the burros my Indio friends are kind and call it a singing;––as easy as that is it to get credit for talent in this beneficent land of yours! But––the compact, señora?”
Her brows lifted wearily, yet the hint of a smile was in her eyes.
“Yes, since you ask so small a thing, it is yours. Jocasta makes compact with you; give me a wish that the life is worth it.”
“Sure I will,” said Kit holding out his hand, but she shrunk perceptibly, and her hand crept out of sight in the black draperies.
“You have not, perhaps, ever sent a soul to God without absolution?” she asked in a breathless hushed sort of voice. “No señor, the look of you tells me you have not been so unpardonable. Is it not so?”
“Why, yes,” returned Kit, “it hasn’t been a habit with me to start anyone on the angels’ flight without giving him time to bless himself, but even at that–––”