“How can it be?” asked the Mexican unbelievingly. “They must work like slaves during the pleasant weather in order to protect themselves from hunger and cold through the bitter winters. Thus while they work at the most beautiful time of the year they lose all the pleasure they might have; and in the winter they are compelled to huddle by their fireside. To me the people here are much like slaves. They know nothing of the real enjoyment of life.” “On the contrary,” denied Frank, “they enjoy life more fully than most people. To them labor is enjoyment. They are ambitious, and not only do they labor that they might eat, and drink, and be clothed and housed, but they labor to accomplish something that will make the world better and brighter. It’s from this frozen North that the most ambitious, most energetic, most brainy men go forth into the world. By this I do not mean that it’s from the State of Maine alone, or even from the New England States, that such men go forth. It’s from the entire North, the temperate portion of the country. The people of the far South are inclined to be slothful. It’s in the atmosphere. The climate affects them. If they have ambitions, they say to-morrow we will begin; but for them to-morrow never comes.” “Still,” persisted Del Norte, “I can’t see how any one who is forced to labor may possibly be happy. To me it’s like slavery.” “Nor can you comprehend, I presume,” said Merry, “that the people of the North labor from choice. It’s a fact that many rich men and many rich men’s sons labor because they love to work—they feel they must work. It’s in their blood to do, to accomplish, to be something. But we have strayed away from our subject, Señor del Norte. You have been telling Miss Burrage an interesting tale of yourself and your family, and you promised to repeat it for me.” “Ah! yes, so I did,” murmured the Mexican as he rolled a fresh cigarette. “I have thought for some time that I would tell you that story, Señor Merriwell. I know you are interested in Mexico.” He struck a match and lighted a cigarette, at which he puffed a moment in silent meditation, his head bowed. It was a shapely head, with dark hair, in which there was the slightest wavy curl. His profile as shown by the moonlight of the far North seemed to carry with it the warm atmosphere of the tropics. Still, there was about it something sad and poetic. Finally he began speaking, and once more he went over the story as told to Inza. At times he turned his dark eyes toward Frank, and watched the young American keenly, as if seeking to know the effect of the narrative upon him. “A most interesting tale, señor,” said Merriwell when it was finished. “It is indeed too bad that the grant of land accorded your family should have been made at such a time and by President Pedraza, whose power was only temporary and passing, and whose acts have been recognized by few of his followers in office as legitimate.” Del Norte laughed softly.