Fray Bartolomeo ate with a smacking of lips; he leaned over his deep plate and scooped the food untidily into his mouth with wisps of tortilla, although Don José, his host, had two silver spoons set at the plate of each guest. Don José owned a silver bowl and pitcher, and for the rest the reddish earthenware of Mexico. The Madonna-faced girl who ate silently with them rose during the meal and brought in a bowl of luscious grapes, both small and large. Fray Bartolomeo spat the skins on the bare earthen floor, which, though uncarpeted, was scrupulously swept and clean, as was indeed the entire room, with its whitewashed walls and sturdy hand-built furniture. Don José sent for wine, and poured from the bulging kidskin that was brought in a silver pitcher full. They quaffed it from gourd cups. The fraile grew red with content and, draining his _copa_ at a gulp, passed it back for more. The pitcher was filled again and again, and while the fraile consumed an incredible quantity of wine and the girl carried away the remains of the supper, Don José, his son, and Steven listened to talk of gaming birds, of the virtues of good cooking, and the skill of the Indians at gaming and as silversmiths. Strange talk from a fraile for pious ears. The lean features of Don José contracted with disapproval, and after the candles had been lit he arose and withdrew. The son remained, held by a gloomy fascination with the conversation, and as the evening wore on Steven himself listened with delight and amazement. Low, unclean, cunning as the fraile showed himself to be, growing less and less careful as he bibbed at the wine, nevertheless he was a man whose knowledge was wide, whose tastes were cosmopolitan. He was a Cachupin, a Spanish-born resident of old Mexico, and for that reason was being recalled along with the other Spanish born who were to be expelled from the land. He did not make mention of the fact that there were certain charges which he would be compelled to face before his superiors of the Church. “Yet what difference does it make,” he shrugged, “whether I am in Spain or here? One would scarcely know the difference. The same mountains, the same faces, same types. I think the wine of Spain is better, yet the grapes are not so good, so rich.” He sighed. “Spain has little gold or silver. No jewels, much as she craves them. Her rubies come from the Orient, her sapphires from France. Mexico has gold and silver, opals and aquamarines, and for precious gems pearls from the Gulf on the western coast.