Out into the rain he went again, across the plaza, down the slope to where he had picketed his horse. Back and forth he ran to warm his blood. The sky darkened, the night came. He saw the lights in the buildings again, and the odours of cooking food almost drove him frantic. In the guest house, someone was singing. He guessed that it was Señorita Anita Fernandez. He spent that night in the orchard under the big palm, shivering because of the cold and his wet clothes, miserable because of his hunger, and when the dawn came, and the storm had not abated, he went back to the horse with an armful of dry grass he had found in the corner by the orchard wall. Bravado came to him now. He took the guitar from beneath his cloak, and, standing out on the slope where all could see, he played and sang at the top of his voice. Still it rained, and the creek grew broader, flooding the highway and threatening the plaza wall. The caballero sat on the muddy ground, his cloak over his head, huddled forward, grim, awaiting the end of the rain. “The poor man!” observed Señora Vallejo, watching from a window of the guest house. “He has brought it upon himself,” Señor Lopez reminded her. “Had he returned when I warned him he would have been in comfort somewhere along the highway long since.” “If the rain could but wash his soul as it does his body!” sighed Anita, standing closer to the big fireplace. “The man will die,” Señora Vallejo said. “His clothing is soaked, and he cannot build a fire and cook food.” “Perhaps it will teach him a lesson,” Lopez snarled. “We must watch; he may try to break into the storehouse to-night.” “Listen! He is singing again,” Anita called. “Oh, the man has courage enough!” Lopez said. “They tell a thousand stories of his daring. The men at one of the missions were going to whip him down the highway once, and he sang them out of it. Moreover, he got them to play at cards, and finally went down the highway with a drove of mules loaded with goods he had won.” “You are certain all the stories are true?” the girl asked. “More stories are true than you may be told, _señorita_. It is best not to ask too much,” Señora Vallejo put in; and she frowned a warning at the storekeeper. They sat down to the evening meal, to a table loaded with food as if for a feast. The man down on the slope was still singing. “Perhaps he will go away after the storm,” Anita suggested. “He will be too miserable to remain.” “And when the story gets up and down El Camino Real, he will be forced to leave the country,” Lopez added. “He is the sort of man who cannot stand ridicule.”