are a brother of the order, simply fray, not padre, as many Franciscans are; you come from a foreign land, you have no Spanish. I will guarantee that nobody who saw you yesterday, not even sharp old Sergeant Olivera himself, would recognize you today. This gown, your lean, ascetic face, your long jaw like the jaw of a man who has fasted—"
"Fasted I have, Padre Mateo. Did I tell you that for six days in the desert northeast of your mountains I had no meat, and only such water as I could suck out of that prickly plant with leaves like beavers' tails?"
"You did not tell me, Juan. But you have earned the right to wear the gown of a monk, at least in the cause of the distressed. But remember—silence if we meet soldiers. It will only complicate your situation in this country if you fight them, and unluckily kill one of them, Juan."
"Yes, that would be an unlucky go for me," Juan said, as grave as if the vows of the Franciscans bound him, in truth. "I'd take to the woods and run my chances rather than lift my hand against a soldier, or any officer of the law, in this or any other land."
Padre Mateo nodded, considering it silently a little way.
"Yes; just so," he said. "But we must be wise, as well as cautious, and then you shall have nothing to avoid when you meet the soldiers, if such a bad chance must come to us. I never could put myself on the same footing with Padre Ignacio
