"I HATE them," he hissed, bringing his face close to the quiet eyes;
and the Spanish word means more than ours.

Then he threw himself back in his chair with an upward jerk of the
head.

"I have good reason to do so," he added. "I sometimes wonder why I
ever speak to an Englishman; for they resemble you in some things,
these Scorpions. This one had a fair moustache, blue eyes, clean-
cut features, like some of those from the North. But he was not
large, this one--the Rock does not breed a large race. They are
mean little men, with small white hands and women's feet. Ah, God!
how I hate them all!"

The Englishman took a fresh cigarette from a Russia leather case,
and pushed the remainder across the table for his companion to help
himself when he had finished mashing the crooked paper between his
lips.

"I know your language," the Spaniard went on, "as well almost as you
know mine. But I do not speak it now. It burns my throat--it
hurts."

Cartoner lighted his cigarette. He betrayed not the smallest
feeling of curiosity. It was marvellous how he had acquired the
manner of these self-contained Sons of the Peninsula.

"I will tell it."

The Englishman leant his elbow on the table, and his chin within his