BORROMEDO was not the man to refuse a cut from the fresh roast when the mayordomo and Magdalena sat down to supper, although Sergeant Olivera could not be tempted to exceed the limit of decorum and comfort. Geronimo brought a pitcher of wine from the cellar; there was laughter at the kitchen table, in which the rumble of great Borromeo's mirth bore the basso profundo like a boisterous wind.
"Savage!" said Geronimo, cutting again a thick portion of mutton ribs, which he tossed to the blacksmith's plate with his immense fork as if serving a dog. He was diverted by the blacksmith's appetite, which he encouraged both in goblet and in plate.
"If I could eat like one of these Indians I might be called a brave man at the platter," Borromeo said. "Beside even an old Indian woman with a poor appetite I am nothing but a child."
"That is almost true," Geronimo admitted, turning to the soldier with a smile. "Have you had experience in feeding Indians, Sergeant Olivera?"
"That is a singular duty I have been spared," the soldier replied. "From what I have seen of them,
