“But Spain, ah Spain,” the fraile sighed with genuine rapture. “There is a finished life. What paintings! Did you know that last year the great Goya died? Never has there been a greater depicter of Spain. For one of his canvases I would give----” His voice died away. But he had been lucky, the fraile said, always lucky. Lucky at cards, lucky in love. To the horrified ears of the two youths he roared of his conquests and spoke of matters beyond their comprehension. And now his luck still held, the babbling tongue went on, for had he not won at cards, from a youth of the Villa, a thousand times the amount of the boy’s losses, payment, by an old painting, a priceless canvas which should have gone to the Church, anyway, but which he would sell when he got to Mexico City, or to Spain. The proceeds would make him rich beyond avarice. The impious bragging of the prelate, imposing thus on the respect and hospitality due his garb from faithful Catholics, had broken the spell of his speech, and without ceremony the two youths left him, bowed soddenly over the table. Yet the next morning Fray Bartolomeo was brisk and fresh and ready to start forth upon his way. Steven declined his invitation to be a partner on the road as far as El Paso del Norte, where the Cachupin was to join a caravan for safety down the Cordilleras. Steven preferred traveling alone, and made excuse that he was saddle-sore and would remain for a matter of weeks right here. So the friar rode off and Steven spent a quiet day, resting, getting his linen washed, chatting with the pretty child, winning the sober friendliness of the youth. Don José was gone all day and did not appear until sundown. He had been away looking after his sheep, he said, and brought back a lamb for stewing. With dawn the next morning Steven was on his way. He rode along briskly and uneventfully, mile after mile, passing the laborious oxen and their clumsy carts, and tiny burros laden with vast burdens like moving haystacks. He had received a map from Don Tiburcio and was making toward the pass of the north, where he would leave the Rio Grande behind and follow the mountains down to Chihuahua. A well-traveled road lay before him, stretching smooth and hard between rolling dunes where stunted palms and Spanish dagger pricked the desert. Suddenly between the ruts he came upon a body prone, lying with arms outflung beneath its black cassock--the fraile, dead, his glazed eyes staring into the sun. One tale too many the night before. Here was unexpected reprisal far from the scene of some forgotten injury.