hen, senors, out of the exalted mercy of the Saints. Ah, those
were great times, when I had my eyes, and no grey hairs, and could wear
my sword, and ride my horses. There was work to do then, with sword
and horses. It was revolution here and rebellion there, and bandits
everywhere. Ah, well, it is no matter; I was speaking of the boy and his
father and myself, the compadre. We were all great friends. But you know
the way of men. One day he and I--Santiago, Bernal's father--had been
drinking mescal. We quarrelled--I know not why. It is not well nor right
for a padre and a compadre to fight--there is trouble in Heaven over
that. But there is a way; and we did it as others have done. We took off
our sombreros, and put our compadreship on the ground under them. That
was all right--it was hid there under the hat. Then we stood up and
fought--such a fight--for half an hour. Then he cut me in the thigh--a
great gash--and I caught him in the neck the same. We both came to the
ground then, the fight was over, and we were, of course, good friends
again. I dragged myself over to him as he lay there, and lifted his head
and sopped the blood at his neck with my scarf. I did not think that he
was hurt so bad. But he said: 'I am gone, my Becodar. I haven't got
five minutes in me. Put on your compadreship quick.' I snatched up the
sombrero and put it on, and his I tucked under his head. So that we were
compadres again. Ah, senor, senor! Soon he drew my cheek down to his and
said: 'Adios, compadre: Bernal is thine now. While your eyes see, and
your foot travels, let him not want a friend. Adios!' That was the end
of him. They had me in Balim for a year, and then I came out to the boy;
and since then for twelve years he has not suffered."

At this point he offered us the pulque and the sandwiches, and I took
both, eating and enjoying as well as I could. Sherry groaned, but took
the pulque, refusing the sandwiches almost violently.

"How did you lose your sight, Becodar?" asked Sherry presently.

Becodar sat perfectly still for a moment, and then said in a low voice:
"I will tell you. I will make the story short. Gentle God, what a thing
it was! I was for Gonzales then--a loyal gentleman, he called me--I, a
gentleman! But that was his way. I was more of a spy for him. Well,
I found out that a revolution was to happen, so I gave the word to
Gonzales, and with the soldiers came to Puebla. The leaders were
captured in a house, brought out,