DON ROBERTO rode into the courtyard at evening, dust on his shoulders. He flung himself from the saddle with impatience, throwing out his hands in baffled expression of emptiness when Don Abrahan came hastily from the house to meet him.
"The earth has swallowed him," Don Roberto said.
He drew his shoulders up, lifted his eyebrows, pulled down the corners of his large, flexible mouth, emphasizing his report of complete failure in his quest.
"You have made his grave, then? It is very good."
Don Abrahan spoke with well-simulated gratification, as a man hearing good news. But that light of something in his eyes that seemed laughter and was not, told Roberto that he was being scorned.
"I have not made his grave," Roberto replied shortly, with surly tongue. "No man has seen him; he leaves no tracks."
"The earth opens to swallow a man but once," Don Abrahan said gravely. That is when it makes the little grin called the grave. As long as this sailor is not in his grave, he walks the ground
