collision with my old sober beast, at another there would be fifty
yards of ground between us; still Lucero would not stop talking, for
he had begun a very interesting story at starting, and he stuck to his
narrative through everything, resuming the thread after each tempest
of execration vented on his horse, and raising his voice almost to a
shout when we were far apart. The old fellow's staying powers were
really extraordinary, and when we arrived at the house he jumped airily
to the ground, and seemed fresh and calm as possible.

In the kitchen were several people sipping _mate_, Lucero's
children and grandchildren, also his wife, a grey old dame with
dim-looking eyes. But then my host was old in years himself, only,
like Ulysses, he still possessed the unquenched fire and energy of
youth in his soul, while time bestowed infirmities together with
wrinkles and white hairs on his helpmate.

He introduced me to her in a manner that brought the modest flame to
my cheeks. Standing before her, he said that he had met me at the
_pulperia_ and had put to me the question which a simple old
countryman must ask of every traveller from Montevideo--What the news
was? Then, assuming a dry, satirical tone, which years of practice
would not enable me to imitate, he proceeded to give my fantastical
answer, garnished with much original matter of his own.

"Senora," I said, when he had finished, "you must not give me credit
for all you have heard from your husband. I only gave him brute wool,
and he has woven it for your delight into beautiful cloth."

"Hear him! Did I tell you what to expect, Juana?" cried the old man,
which made me blush still more.