Spaniard, even the lowest muleteer, esteems himself a gentleman, and
knows how to act as such. The Padre Concha had a pleasant voice,
and a habit of gesticulating slowly with one large and not too clean
hand, that suggested the pulpit. He had led the way to a spacious
verandah, where there were small tables and chairs, and at the outer
corners orange trees in square green boxes.

'We will have a bottle of wine--is it not so?--yes,' he said, and
gravely clapped his hands together to summon the waiter--an Oriental
custom still in use in the Peninsula.

The wine was brought and duly uncorked, during which ceremony the
priest waited and watched with the preoccupied air of a host careful
for the entertainment of his guest. He tasted the wine critically.

'It might be worse,' he said. 'I beg you to excuse it not being
better.'

There was something simple in the old man's manner that won
Conyngham's regard.

'The wine is excellent,' he said. 'It is my welcome to Spain.'

'Ah! Then this is your first visit to this country,' the priest
said indifferently, his eyes wandering to the open sea, where a few
feluccas lay becalmed.

'Yes.'

Conyngham turned and looked towards the sea also. It was late in