No less was Lewis's wonder at the stranger's raiment. A pith helmet,
Norfolk jacket, moleskin riding-breeches, leather puttees, and stout,
pigskin footwear--these were strange apparel.

The stranger was not old. One would have placed him at forty-five. As a
matter of fact, he was only forty. He was the first to recover poise. He
peered keenly into Lewis's face.

"May I ask your name?"

"My name is Lewis Leighton. And yours?"

The stranger waved his hand impatiently.

"Where are you going?"

"I am on my way to Oeiras to seek employment," said Lewis.

"To seek employment, eh?" said the stranger, thoughtfully. "Will you
tell this misbegotten guide that I wish to return to the water we passed
a little while ago? I should like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

Lewis translated the order.

"So they are words, after all," said the guide. He shook his head from
side to side, as one who suspects witchcraft.

When the pack-train was headed back on the road it had come, Lewis
turned to the guide.