"Yes," answered the boy good-naturedly, casting the wood to the flagging near the flame and brushing his coat with his hand; "the storm kept us out last night, Sanchez." "It'll keep you out for good some day," remarked the man. "You'll be drowned, if you don't have a care." "Better that than being hanged!" returned the lad lightly. The other's response, beneath his breath, was lost, as he drew his stool closer to the pot above the blaze, removed the lid and peered within. Apparently his survey was not satisfactory, for he replaced the cover, clasped his fingers over his knees and half closed his eyes. "Where's the fish?" The boy, thoughtfully regarding the flames, started; when he had left the child and Beppo, unconsciously he had dropped it, but this he did not now explain. "I didn't bring one." "Didn't bring one?" "No," said the boy, flushing slightly. "And not a bone or scrap in the larder! Niggardly fishermen! A small enough wage--for going to sea and helping them--" "Oh, I could have had what I wanted. And they are not niggardly! Only--I forgot." "Forgot!" The man lifted his hands, but any further evidence of surprise or expostulation was interrupted by a sudden ebullition in the pot. Left to his thoughts, the boy stepped to the window; for some time stood motionless, gazing through a forest rift at the end of which uprose the top of an Aladdin-like structure, by an optical illusion become a part of that locality; a conjuror's castle in the wood! "The Mount looks near to-night, Sanchez!" "Near?" The man took from its hook the pot and set it on the table. "Not too near to suit the Governor, perhaps!" "And why should it suit him?" drawing a stool to the table and sitting down. "Because he must be so fond of looking at the forest." "And does that--please him?" "How could it fail to? Isn't it a nice wood? Oh, yes, I'll warrant you he finds it to his liking. And all the lands about the forest that used to belong to the old Seigneurs, and which the peasants have taken--waste lands they have tilled--he must think them very fine to look at, now! And what a hubbub there would be, if the lazy peasants had to pay their métayage, and fire-tax and road-tax--and all the other taxes--the way the other peasants do--to him--" "What do you mean?" "Nothing!" The man's jaw closed like a steel trap. "The porridge is burned." And with no further word the meal proceeded. The man, first to finish, lighted his pipe, moved again to the fire, and, maintaining a taciturnity that had become more or less habitual, stolidly devoted himself to the solace of the weed and the companionship of his own reflections. Once or twice the boy seemed about to speak and did not; finally, however, he leaned forward, a more resolute light in his sparkling black eyes. "You never learned to read, Sanchez?" At the unexpected question, the smoke puffed suddenly from the man's lips. "Not I." "Nor write?"