And evidently something did, for the priest ate like a vaquero off the ranges. Don Enrico felt a growing respect for the man who could eat more barbecued meat than himself, and drink as much red wine. In fact, all did ample justice to the beef of the bonfire built for old Polonia,--all except Ana,--who still looked pale and uneasy, and Bryton, who made a pretence of eating, but who refused a second glass of wine, a thing the padre noticed with a smile, and their host commented on vigorously. "You can't drink--you Americans," he insisted; "and look at your plate,--not half empty! It takes students and brain-workers like the padre and me to spoil a side of beef! You are Spanish and of Mexico, padre?" "No, not even my grandfather came from Spain; so I cannot claim to be Spanish," said the padre. "I claim only to be Mexican." "And good enough too! Across the line, do these bandits of ours make much trouble these days?" "No one has complained to me of them. You say they take most from the Americano, but in our country there are no Americano ranches yet; we do not expect to find them there for many years." "Well, Capitan does go down there sometimes," insisted Don Enrico; "I've heard of it. His family meant him for the Church, but the young devil ran away and joined the army with his elder brother. The Americans shot Roberto; this one was only a boy then, light-weight to ride, and he carried despatches, and never went back to the Church. Oh, he is Californian, all right,--is cousin to half the country. He is--what relation should he be to us, Refugia?" "He is second cousin to me," said Ana. "So if you hear of him being in trouble for his soul, say a prayer for him, padre, on account of his loyal cousin," said Juanita, and laughed teasingly; but Ana lifted troubled, dark eyes to the padre's face. "Do so, father," she said, simply; "for the sake of his soul, remember me!" "These women!" laughed her uncle; "they are always troubling us about our souls, padre. Don't let them spoil your supper with a list of prayers!" "And what would become of some of your souls if we women did not say the prayers?" retorted his wife. "God knows, Capitan needs them." "We all need them," said the priest, quietly. "Still, I always have understood that he is the whitest of the bunch," observed Bryton. "There are, then, different shades of blackness?" asked the padre. "I believe the law holds all equally guilty." "El Capitan's motives, at least, have been different, and it has come to be understood that when extremely brutal things have occurred on their raids, Capitan is never of the party." "Is it so? I did not know you Americanos gave Mexicans credit for such negative virtues?" Bryton looked up quickly. There was a mocking light in the eyes of the padre, and he was smiling across the table. The smile puzzled Bryton as much as the quick alarm in the eyes of Ana. Was she afraid of controversy over the still warm question of Mexican and United States rights?