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 to the roadside to save death the trouble of reaching within doors for him when it passed. A dark and wrinkled man, his sombrero, shaggy and mangy as the coat of an old burro, pulled down to shade his eyes.

The old man rose with surprising agility as the two riders came near. It must not be that he had an appointment with death for that day, or many days to come, Henderson thought, regarding him with surprise. He seemed as supple as a man carrying half his years; his step was quick when he advanced, evidence of pleasure was in his kindly, wrinkled face.

"Don Felipe! I thought my eyes were deceiving me, it has been so long since they had the good luck to see your face."

"Pablo, my friend."

Felipe leaned with outstretched hand to meet the old man's. It was plain by the fervor of that handclasp that equality between men was not altogether a poetic fancy with this Don Felipe, whom liberty had stripped of his lands.

"How have you passed, Felipe?" the old man asked.

"Oh, but so-so, Pablo. And you?"

"Like a tortoise. Well, I have had my day."

"I pray God to give you many more, old friend. I have the honor to present my comrade and friend, Gabriel Henderson. Gabriel, this is. Pablo Gonzales, my second father."

The old man looked up with quick interest, the