"They always tell me that. Mañana, mañana; always mañana!"
He sighed patiently, looking at the Señor, as if the great gentleman could help him in his trouble.
Andres turned away his head. He gazed across the valley toward the hills beyond which lay Troja. That was where they had gone to see Dondy Jeem, he and his pretty Roseta—Roseta, who had tossed her head and shaken the gold hoops in her ears when Dondy Jeem had kissed his hand to the spectators. He had turned always to the seats where Roseta and Andres, stupid Andres—he knew that now—sat. Then Roseta had given El Rey to the ever-willing arms of Andres, and fixed her eyes on Dondy Jeem and watched his graceful poise, the white satin shoes descending so easily and securely upon the swaying rope, the long pole held so lightly in the strong hands. It had been before those days that Roseta used to call the child her king. Poor El Rey! He looked a sorry enough little king to-day, a dethroned little king, with his pinched face and trembling fingers and wistful eyes, searching the world in vain for the kingdom which had been wrested from him.
"How did you get out of the rancho, El Rey?"
"That Señorita from El Cuco, she let me out."
"You should be in bed, muchachito."
"But it is lonely, Señor, in that bed. That is Roseta's bed. I turn that way and this way. It is hot. I look for Roseta. She is not there. A man look in at the door once; he frighten me. To-day a hairy beast came. He push back the shutter. When he was gone, I ran. I stumble, I fell over bajucos. I caught my foot in a root. That would not matter if I could find Roseta. I would rather be here with the Señor than at the river."
El Rey pushed a confiding little hand into Don Gil's palm. Don Gil sat down and took the child between his knees.
"Andres, do you shoot as well as of old?"
"I shoot fairly well, Señor."