"I remember; there was one lady on the ship. Did you get her, according to your oath, Borromeo?"
"A man is not an old man at thirty-seven, as I have said." Borromeo looked about him, a challenge in his bearing to any man who might have the courage to question the pertinacity of his emphasized repetition.
"Nobody denies it, Borromeo," Don Geronimo said. "Sit; there is wine in the pitcher."
"And where is the barbarian?" Sergeant Olivera inquired. "Has he put on his hairy skins and gone back to his kind?"
"He is sitting by a candle, a book under his nose, spelling out large words which he will try to pronounce to me tomorrow," Borromeo laughed. "He is a savage no longer, my brave soldier."
"No? It is a miracle," the soldier said, amusement, depreciation, in his words.
"He has been baptized," Magdalena told him, speaking with reverence.
"Like an Indian caught out of the woods," Sergeant Olivera smiled. "Do not trust him; it may be only a pretense."
"It is to be seen," said Don Geronimo, very grave, shaking his head as if in pity of the priests' credulity.
Magdalena said nothing. She reached for the pitcher and filled her husband's glass.
"Now, I will tell you, gentlemen," said Borro-
