"Caspita!" he was heard by Pascual to mutter. "Caspita!"—"Wonderful! Wonderful!"
Every so often, he halted and stooped lower, crouching almost to the very ground. It was as though, each time, he discovered something of sober interest to him and paused to examine that something.
Pascual followed him with puzzled and astounded eyes. At last, as the curious performance persisted, he called out, "Dios hombre! what ails you, man?"
His face flushed, his eyes smiling with triumph, the youthful and handsome Miguel came back to the spot where he had started his mysterious shadow-dance up the hillside.
"Pascual Montara!" he called. "This way, quick!"
As the other trotted his pony over, he pointed a finger to the ground before him and said, "Do you see that which I see, Pascual?"
"Seguramente, yes."
"What is it, then?"
"Carajo, Miguel! it is only a handful of grass, plucked and left in a tiny hillock by some one."
"Bueno! But who plucked it, then, and left it in a heap upon the ground?"