“Am I not robbing you?” inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant glance over the wide, sterile plain.
“No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I can get a fresh supply. Drink, señor, drink it all.”
In ten seconds after the calabash is empty.
“Now eat the tortillas. ’Tis but poor fare, but the chili vinagre will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that.”
Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative medicine had been administered to him.
“Do you think you are able to ride?” she asks.
“I can walk—though, perhaps, not very far.”
“If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far—only six miles.”
“But,” protests he, “I must not leave this spot.”
“Indeed!” she exclaims, turning upon her protégé a look of surprise. “For what reason, señor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no companions to care for you?”