His faint clipped accent, the tears in his eyes, told Kay that this man
was one of Don Miguel's own people. Farrel clasped the proffered hand
and replied to him in Spanish; then, remembering his manners, he
presented the horseman as Don Nicolás Sandoval, sheriff of the county.
Don Nicolás bent low over his horse's neck, his wide gray hat clasped to
his gallant heart.

"You will forgive the emotion of a foolish old man, Miss Parker," he
said, "but we of San Marcos County love this boy."

Other friends now came running; in a few minutes perhaps a hundred men,
boys, and women had surrounded the car, struggling to get closer, vying
with each other to greet the hero of the San Gregorio. They babbled
compliments and jocularities at him; they cheered him lustily; with
homely bucolic wit they jeered his army record because they were so proud
of it, and finally they began a concerted cry of; "Speech! Speech!
Speech!"

Don Mike stood up in the tonneau and removed his hat. Instantly silence
settled over the crowd, and Kay thought that she had never seen a more
perfect tribute of respect paid anyone. He spoke to them briefly, with a
depth of sentiment only possible in a descendant of two of the most
sentimental races on earth; but he was not maudlin. When he had
concluded his remarks, he repeated them in Spanish for the benefit of
those who had never learned English very well or at all.

And now, although Kay did not understand a word of what he said, she
realized that in his mother tongue he was infinitely more tender, more
touching, more dramatic than he could possibly be in English, for his
audience wagged approving' heads now and paid him the tribute of many a