An old man whose face was all eyes and long gray hair had got around on the side of the car opposite to the guard. He leaned toward Strawbridge, wafting a revolting odor.
"Señor," he whispered, "I had a pretty daughter. I meant to give her to a strong lad called Esteban, for a wife, but the jefe civil suddenly broke up my home and sent me to the 'reds.' She was a pretty girl, my little Madruja. Señor, can it be, by chance, that you are traveling toward Canalejos?"
The American nodded slightly into the sunken eyes.
"Then, for our Lady's sake, señor, if she is not already lost, be kind to my little Madruja! Give her a word from me, señor. Tell her ... tell her—" he looked about him with his ghastly hollow eyes—"tell her that her old father is ... well, and kindly treated on ... on account of his age."
Just then the bull-fighter leaned past the American.
"You say this girl is in Canalejos, señor?" he broke in.
"Sí, señor."
"Then the Holy Virgin has directed you to the right person, señor. I am Lubito, the bull-fighter, a man of heart." He touched his athletic chest. "I will find your little Madruja, señor, and care for her as if she were my own."
The convict reached out a shaking claw.
"Gracias á Madre in cielo! Gracias á San Pedro! Gracias á la Vírgen Inmaculada!" Somehow a tear had managed to form in the wretch's dried and sunken eye.