harness of Don Abrahan's coach horses. The walls were hung with the expensive gear; the smell of neat's-foot oil was heavy. Yet, compared to the forecastle smell when the wet boots and clothing of twenty sailors hung there, this was balsam in Henderson's nostrils. Footsore and fatigued, thankful for this haven that had opened to him out of the uncertainty of the morning, the sailor threw himself upon his pallet of hay and slept.
Henderson woke suddenly, according to his sea habit, after he had slept the period of what would have been his watch below. He sat up in palpitating bewilderment, not able for a moment to adjust his senses to his situation, expecting the hail down the forecastle hatch summoning his watch on deck.
There was the soft whisper of rain on the thatch, a movement of men in the courtyard. By the light of lanterns Henderson saw the muddy freight wagon, just arrived from its long journey from the harbor. It was covered over by a tarpaulin; they left it there, the mules jangling off to their stables with weary heads drooping in the rain.
The sailor sighed, stretching himself in the relaxation of confidence and security on a bed that seemed softer than any that ever had blessed his tired bones. He was comfortable in the sanctuary that Don Abrahan had given him, thankful that no summons sounded on the deck overhead, hailing him out into the stormy night.
Early as Henderson left his bed next morning, Don Felipe was ahead of him in the business of
