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The old man turned musingly, and made motions of writing, a pleased look in his face. “Ah, senor, he who so writes is Bernal–I am his compadre. He has his mother now, but no father, no father.” He smiled. “You have never seen so bold and enterprising, never so handsome a boy. He can throw the lasso and use the lariat, and ride–sabe Dios, he can ride! His cousin Gerado the Rurales taught him. I do well by him as I may, who have other things to think on. But I do well by him.”

“What became of his father, Becodar? Dead?” asked Sherry.

The beggar crossed himself. “Altogether, senor. And such a funeral had he, with the car all draped, and even the mutes with the gold braid on their black. I will tell you how it was. We were great friends, Bernal’s father and me, and when the boy was born, I said, I will be compadre to him. (‘Godfather, or co-father,’ interposed Sherry to me.) I had my sight then, senors, out of the exalted mercy of the Saints. Ah, those were great times, when I had my eyes, and no grey hairs, and could wear my sword, and ride my horses. There was work to do then, with sword and horses. It was revolution here and rebellion there, and bandits everywhere. Ah, well, it is no matter; I was speaking of the boy and his father and myself, the compadre. We were all great friends. But you know the way of men. One day he and I–Santiago, Bernal’s father–had been drinking mescal. We quarrelled–I know not why. It is not well nor right for a padre and a compadre to fight–there is trouble in Heaven over that. But there is a way; and we did it as others have done. We took off our sombreros, and put our compadreship on the ground under them. That was all right–it was hid there under the hat. Then we stood up and fought–such a fight–for half an hour. Then he cut me in the thigh–a great gash–and I caught him in the neck the same. We both came to the ground then, the fight was over, and we were, of course, good friends again. I dragged myself over to him as he lay there, and lifted his head and sopped the blood at his neck with my scarf. I did not think that he was hurt so bad. But he said: ‘I am gone, my Becodar. I haven’t got five minutes in me. Put on your compadreship quick.’ I snatched up the sombrero and put it on, and his I tucked under his head. So that we were compadres again. Ah, senor, senor! Soon he drew my cheek down to his and said: ‘Adios, compadre: Bernal is thine now. While your eyes see, and your foot travels, let him not want a friend. Adios!’ That was the end of him. They had me in Balim for a year, and then I came out to the boy; and since then for twelve years he has not suffered.”

At this point he offered us the pulque and the sandwiches, and I took both, eating and enjoying as well as I could. Sherry groaned, but took the pulque, refusing the sandwiches almost violently.

“How did you lose your sight, Becodar?” asked Sherry presently.

Becodar sat perfectly still for a moment, and then said in a low voice: “I will tell you. I will make the story short. Gentle God, what a thing it was! I was for Gonzales then–a loyal gentleman, he called me–I, a gentleman! But that was his way. I was more of a spy for him. Well, I found out that a revolution was to happen, so I gave the word to Gonzales, and with the soldiers came to Puebla. The leaders were captured in a house, brought out, and without trial were set against a wall. I can remember it so well–so well! The light was streaming from an open door upon the wall. They were brought out, taken across the road and stood against a wall. I was standing a distance away, for at the moment I was sorry, though, to be sure, senor, it was for the cause of the country then, I thought. As I stood there looking, the light that streamed from the doorway fell straight upon a man standing against that wall. It was my brother–Alphonso, my brother. I shrieked and ran forward, but the rifles spat out at the moment, and the five men fell. Alphonso–ah, I thank the Virgin every day! he did not know. His zarape hangs there on the wall, his sombrero, his sword, and his stirrups.”