This short soliloquy had been occasioned by the sight of young Montoro Diego passing the end of the street. His reappearance now, in the street itself, with a large loaf of bread in his arms, brought the soliloquy to a sudden stop; and Sancho left his post of observation in his own doorway, and hurried as fast as his weighty figure would allow to the pedestrian, finding no very great difficulty in barring the lad's further progress along the narrow roadway with his broad form. Montoro threw back his head impatiently. "What now?" he demanded, with flushed cheeks. "Have you some more dog's meat that you wish to be rid of?" The burgess laughed. "Verily, my son, there is a bold spirit hidden under those rags of thine. But a truce to laughter; for verily I feel angered with you now, and I have a right?" "Because I would none of your mean gifts?" asked Montoro hotly. "Nay, indeed; that was your affair. But I am angry, and have a right to be, that you should accept aid from others which you will not have from me." "Accept aid!" repeated the lad wonderingly. "Of what are you speaking? What aid have we received since the only friend died of whom we would accept it?" But even as he spoke he caught the eyes of his companion fixed upon the loaf by way of significant answer, and he added shortly: "This I have earned. It is no gift." Then slipping under his questioner's arm he thought to have escaped; but Master Sancho caught him by the shoulder and held him fast. "Look here, my son, by your air and looks I judge you to have been born to a rank far above my own and so if it be your pleasure I will speak to you with uncovered head by way of deference. But speak to you I will, for I have taken a fancy to you; and if you are not as set against work as against alms I may help you." There was a spasmodic twitch of the shoulder at those last words; and the boy's face was so turned away that his captor could not read it. But after a moment's silence the worthy-hearted man continued, with a different accent of somewhat impatient anger: "Hark ye, lad, ye may be as indifferent about thyself as it may please thee; but I cry shame on thee to refuse aught that may provide needful nourishment for that sweet and gentle mother of thine. To nourish thy false pride--ay, I will even call it by a juster name, thy base pride--thy mother is offering herself a sacrifice." There was a gulping sound in the boy's throat, and then with a choking gasp he muttered: "She could not, she would not, live on charity." "No," instantly agreed the burgess of El Cuevo; "that I begin to believe. But she could and would live on the honest earnings of your hands. And be you noble or no, you'll find ne'er a priest in Spain to dare tell you that it is more honourable to let a mother starve than to work for her."