"What is the name you want to be called by in this country?" Don Abrahan inquired.
"There is no reason why I should change the only one I ever had for this or any other country," the sailor replied, trotting easily with hand on the big leather-covered stirrup. "I was Gabriel Henderson aboard the ship; I am Gabriel Henderson here."
"Gabriel; that is a good name for a Spanish-speaking country; they will have no trouble with it here. And mine is Don Abrahan Cruz y Garvanza. It is a name not unknown to California, perhaps other places as well."
"I am certain it stands for honor and humanity wherever it is known," Gabriel Henderson generously declared.
This part of the highway was more frequented than that portion lying between the pueblo and the harbor. The travelers met numerous people, from caballeros of Don Abrahan's class, who saluted him gravely, and managed their curiosity so well as to seem to overlook the sailor completely, to Mexican citizens of a somewhat lower order, farmers and drovers, who were not so respectful in their bearing to the magistrate. Some of them, indeed, passed stiff-necked and silent, not even turning their eyes. It seemed there must be some difference abroad in the land among men, the sailor thought, marking all that he met upon the road with shrewder insight, perhaps, than his conductor gave him credit for having.
