"Well," said Manvers, "I do, for example. I have proved my horse. He's a Galician, and a good goer. It would want a brave borico to outpace him."
Estéban slipped into the axiomatic, as all Spaniards will. "There's a providence of the road, sir, and a saint in charge of travellers. And we know, sir, a cada puerco viene su San Martin." Manuela stooped her body forward, and peered ahead, as one strains to see in the dark.
"Your proverb is oddly chosen, it seems to me," said Manvers.
Estéban gave a little chuckle from his throat.
"A proverb is a stone flung into a pack of starlings. It may scare the most, but may hit one. By mine I referred to the ways of providence, under a figure. Destiny is always at work."
"No doubt," said Manvers, slightly bored.
"It might have been your destiny to have outpaced me: the odds were with you. On the other hand, as you have not, it must have been mine to have overtaken you."
"You are a philosopher?" asked Manvers, fatigue deliberately in his voice. Estéban's eyes shone intensely; he had marked the changed inflection.
"I studied the Humanities at Salamanca," he said carelessly. "That was when I was an innocent. Since then I have learned in a harder school. I am learning still—every day I learn something new. I am a gentleman born, as your grace has perceived: why not a philosopher?"
Manvers was rather ashamed of himself. "Of course, of course! Why not indeed? I am very glad to see you, while our ways coincide."