olding out his hands; but this time his paternal instinct which he had
heretofore considered an infallible thing, had given him no warning. How
could he recognize Julio in that sergeant whose feet were two cakes of
moist earth, whose faded cloak was a mass of tatters covered with mud,
even up to the shoulders, smelling of damp wool and leather? . . . After
the first embrace, he drew back his head in order to get a good look at
him without letting go of him. His olive pallor had turned to a bronze
tone. He was growing a beard, a beard black and curly, which reminded
Don Marcelo of his father-in-law. The centaur, Madariaga, had certainly
come to life in this warrior hardened by camping in the open air. At
first, the father grieved over his dirty and tired aspect, but a second
glance made him sure that he was now far more handsome and interesting
than in his days of society glory.

"What do you need? . . . What do you want?"

His voice was trembling with tenderness. He was speaking to the tanned
and robust combatant in the same tone that he was wont to use twenty
years ago when, holding the child by the hand, he had halted before the
preserve cupboards of Buenos Aires.

"Would you like money? . . ."

He had brought a large sum with him to give to his son, but the soldier
gave a shrug of indifference as though he had offered him a plaything.
He had never been so rich as at this moment; he had a lot of money in
Paris and he didn't know what to do with it--he didn't need anything.

"Send me some cigars . . . for me and my comrades."

He was constantly receiving from his mother great baskets full of choice
goodies, tobacco and clothing. But he never kept anything; all was
passed on to his fellow-warriors, sons of poor families or alone in the
world. His munificence had spread from his intimates to the company,
and from that to the entire battalion. Don Marcelo divined his great
popularity in the glances and smiles of the soldiers passing near them.
He was the generous son of a millionaire, and this popularity seemed to
include even him when the news went around that the father of Sergeant
Desnoyers had arrived--a potentate who possessed fabulous wealth on the
other side of the sea.

"I guessed that you would want cigars," chuckled the old man.

And his gaze sought the bags brought from the automobile through the
windings of the underground road.

All of the son's valorous deeds, extolled and magnified by Argensola,
n