world so fair at this late day. It was as in the case of a man who must leave home, never to come back to it again, walking about among things that have been familiar to him many years, discovering new beauty in each common shrub and flower that makes the heart hurt more when he turns away forever. Perhaps he must be leaving the hills soon, and the vega spread at their feet, and the soft winds that came roaming it from the sea. In paradise, it was said, were things sweeter than of this earth, but—but Well, a man would rather stay at home.
Now, who was this scarecrow that rose up in a man's way with a rag on his head? Not Simon of the eight mules? Truly, Simon. There was a lying look in the man's face. He turned his head to listen like a fugitive who expects horses at his heels.
"Pablo! for the love of Our Señora!" said Simon, putting out his hand like a beggar at the church door.
However loquacious to Benito on a long and unfrequented road, Pablo was a man whose tongue did not move with the wind. He stopped Benito, and sat looking at Simon with little interest and less of friendliness in his dry, brown face.
"Help a man whose life hangs by a thread!" Simon appealed, laying familiarly hold of Benito's bridle.
"Who is the man?" Pablo inquired, making his close eyes smaller.
