Manteca, was so much human refuse; his eyes were al-
most hidden, his look sullen; his wiry straight hair fen
over his ears, forehead and neck; his scrofulous lips
hung eternally agape. Once more, Luis Cervantes felt
his flesh quiver.



VII


Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruf-
fled hair, which hung over his moist forehead, pushed it
back over his ears, and opened his eyes.

Distinctly he heard the woman's melodious voice which
he had already sensed in his dream. He walked toward
the door.

It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered
through the thatch of the hut.

The girl who had offered him water the day before,
the girl of whom he had dreamed all night long, now
came forward, kindly and eager as ever. This time she
carried a pitcher of milk brimming over with foam.

"It's goat's milk, but fine just the same. Come on now:
taste it."