his hands, much diverted to see that the congested blood had distended and burst the sailor's seahardened skin.
"Fat," Simon directed. "Don't sit here all night rubbing your hands like an old woman over a charcoal pot. A man has to get to his bed. I wouldn't have brought you so much as a bean if Don Roberto hadn't given sharp orders to feed you well. He wants you to have strength for tomorrow. A man suffers more if he is strong. Eat, curse you in the seven places!"
Simon opened the door to kick through a heap of straw when he saw the prisoner engage himself with the earthen pot of beans.
"Here, Don Gabriel," he said in mockery, "here comes your bed. It is more than many a poor peon has this night to lay his bones on—sweet straw that has not been even picked over by the mules. Well, Don Roberto is kinder to you than I would be—kinder than Santana is to the Yankees he catches along the Rio Grande. They say he burns them, fat scoundrels that they are, to light his camp at night."
Henderson did not grant Simon the satisfaction of so much as a word, although he contrasted the fellow's present ferocity with the friendliness of the past, thinking how quickly tyranny will grow into a rank, foul thing from a so insignificant seed. Simon closed the door after shutting an inner grated barrier that swung back against the wall, then opened it again, candle in hand, as if to re-
