Slowly I went down the hill, and to the old man sitting beside the stream. I found him engaged in the seemingly difficult operation of disentangling a luxuriant crop of very long hair, which had somehow—possibly from long neglect—got itself into great confusion. He had dipped his head into the water, and with an old comb, boasting about seven or eight teeth, was laboriously and with infinite patience drawing out the long hairs, a very few at a time. After saluting him, I lit a cigarette, and, leaning on the neck of my horse, watched his efforts for some time with profound interest. He toiled away in silence for five or six minutes, then dipped his head in the water again, and, while carefully wringing the wet out, he remarked that my horse looked tired.
“Yes,” I replied; “so is his rider. Can you tell me who lives in that estancia?”
“My master,” he returned laconically.
“Is he a good-hearted man—one who will give shelter to a stranger?” I asked.
He took a very long time to answer me, then said:
“He has nothing to say about such matters.”
“An invalid?” I remarked.
Another long pause; then he shook his head and tapped his forehead significantly; after which he resumed his mermaid task.
“Demented?” said I.
He elevated an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.