his tongue where it would have been only coarse on another's. In that way Henderson had made progress amazing to himself, satisfactory to Simon, although the pupil had grave doubt of the elegance that the muleteer boasted as the strong point of his expression in his native tongue.
Simon seemed to have a tender interest in the black stallion's injury, although he was as cruel in his treatment of beasts as the officers of the ship that Henderson had deserted were brutal to their men. Even the mules, unimaginative, indifferent creatures of short memory that they are, cringed and squatted when Simon approached them in their stalls. Now, as Henderson treated the ugly wound in the magnificent stallion's shoulder, Simon stood solicitously by holding the lantern.
"So, that is done," said Simon, putting out the light. "Do you go to your repose?"
"I think not immediately. The moon is so bright it seems like a comrade tonight," Henderson replied in his slow, halting Spanish.
Simon stood a little while looking at the moon, his head thrown back, his long gaunt neck showing a sharp protuberance like a bent elbow.
"It is a good night to talk to the girls," he said, his head still back, the light of the moon in his face.
Simon was a tall and shambling man, long of limb, and thin. He was dressed, as always, in loose trousers and jumper, his inseparable hat with silver filagree work on its pointed crown fixed on his small head. There was not much to
