with their own romantic ideals. Heroic fire in the humble burst out of their own sad ranks of oppression in just that manner now and then, when a man would arm and mount, and ride and rob, a scourge to the rich, a benefactor to the poor. There was not one among them but wished Don Gabriel well of his adventure.
Henderson was a strange figure in their eyes, accustomed as they were to seeing him come and go among them in quite different garments. He was dressed in the manner of an American plainsman, in the clothing John Toberman had supplied him from his personal wardrobe. He wore a heavy gray wool shirt without coat, dark corduroy trousers folded into tall, broad-topped boots. His hat was an old one, brown and weather-beaten as an old eagle, the broad brim of it pliant and hard to keep back from falling like a blinder over the eyes. To prevent this, Henderson had pinned one side of it up with a thorn.
There was a suggestion of romance, of headlong intrepidity, in the turned-up hat brim that the peones appreciated. They talked of Don Gabriel's competent, heroic appearance, gathering in little groups, passing back and forth in suppressed excitement. Henderson turned to the mansion, where Helena Sprague waited at her barred window, the horse following in quiet confidence.
"Felipe! Felipe!" Roberto called, imperiously, impatiently. He knew that the mayordomo stood near, although he could not turn his head to see.
