He raised one finger, shook it from side to side in an emphatic
negation, and laughed. Then he turned suddenly, and looked down
into the valley with a grave face and almost a sigh.

The man had a history it appeared--and, rarer still, was willing to
tell it.

She knew too much of the Spanish race, or perhaps of all men, to ask
questions.

"Yes," she said pleasantly, "it is a good omelette." And the man
turned sharply and looked at her as if she had said something
startling. She noticed his action, and showed surprise.

"It is nothing," he said with a laugh, "only a coincidence--a mere
accident. It is said by the peasants that the mind of a friend has
wings. Perhaps it is so. As I looked down into the valley I was
thinking of a man--a friend. Yes--name of a Saint--he was a friend
of mine, although a gentleman! Educated? Yes, many languages, and
Latin. And I--what am I? You see, Senorita, a peasant, who wears
no coat."

And he laughed heartily, only to change again suddenly to gravity.

"And as I looked down into the valley I was thinking of my friend--
and, believe me, you spoke at that moment with something in your
voice--in your manner--who knows?--which was like the voice and
manner of my friend. Perhaps, Senorita, the peasants are right, and
the mind of my friend, having wings, flew to us at that moment."