Should he return now to the Palomar, there will be no quail to shoot."
He wagged his gray head sorrowfully. "Don Mike will think that, with
the years, laziness and ingratitude have descended upon old Pablo.
Truly, Satan afflicts me." And he cursed with great depth of
feeling--in English.

"Yes, poor boy," old Don Miguel agreed; "he will miss more than the
quail-shooting when he returns--if he should return. They sent him to
Siberia to fight the Bolsheviki."

"What sort of country is this where Don Mike slays our enemy?" Pablo
queried.

"It is always winter there, Pablo. It is inhabited by a wild race of
men with much whiskers."

"Ah, our poor Don Mike! And he a child of the sun!"

"He but does his duty," old Don Miguel replied proudly. "He adds to
the fame of an illustrious family, noted throughout the centuries for
the gallantry of its warriors."

"A small comfort, Don Miguel, if our Don Mike comes not again to those
that love him."

"Pray for him," the old Don suggested piously.

Fell a silence. Then,

"Don Miguel, yonder comes one over the trail from El Toro."