the clouds; could see the two men facing each other in the mist.
With a gesture he showed her how Bernaldez lay, on his face on the
wet stones, with a half-concealed tonsure, turned towards heaven in
mute appeal, awaiting the last great hearing of his case in that
Court where there is no appeal.

"And there we left him, Senorita," added Antonio, shortly.

He rose, walked away from her to the edge of the great slope, and
stood looking down into the valley that lay shimmering below him.
After a time he came back slowly. In his simplicity he was not
ashamed of dimmed eyes.

"I tell you this, Senorita," he said with a laugh, "because you are
an Englishwoman, and because this Mateo was my friend. He is an
American. His name is Whittaker--Matthew S. Whittaker. And this
afternoon I was reminded of him; I know not why. Perhaps it was
something that I said myself, or some gesture that I made, which I
had caught from him. If one thinks much about a person, one may
catch his gestures or his manner: is it not so? And then you
reminded me of him a second time. That was strange."

"Yes," said Miss Cheyne, thoughtfully; "that was strange."

"He went to Cuba again at once, Senorita; that was a year ago. And
I have never heard from him. If, as the peasants say, the mind of a
friend has wings, perhaps Mateo's mind has flown on to tell me that
he is coming. He said he would come back."

"Why was he coming back?" asked Miss Cheyne.