And later, sleep too became a passion, a passion new and sweet in its incantation out of the lost cravings of childhood. When the nearer freshness of the woods filled her nostrils, there from the live-oak moss in her night's abode, she smiled on the grave young fellow who had left her at the door. And both girls laughing together over the masculine notions for their comfort, knew a certain happy tenderness in their gaiety. "Eh, but it's deep, madame," said one. "It's the politeness of the heart," the other explained. Outside Driscoll spread his blanket across the doorway where his horse was sheltered, and wrapped in his great cape-coat, he stretched himself for a smoke. But Murguia came with cigars, of the Huasteca, gray and musty. Driscoll accepted one, waving aside the old man's apologies. He puffed and waited. Conviviality in Don Anastasio meant something. "Ah, amigo," the thin voice cracked in a spasm of forced heartiness, "ah, it was a banquet! Si, si, a banquet! Only, if there were but a liqueur, a liqueur to give the after-cigar that last added relish, verdad, senor?" Driscoll tapped his "after-cigar" till the ashes fell. "Well? he asked. "Ai de mi, caballero, but I am heavy with regrets. I can offer nothing. My poor cognac--no, not after such a feast. But whiskey--ah, whiskey is magnifico. It is American." He stopped, with a genial rubbing of his bony hands. But his sad good-fellowship was transparent enough, and in the darkness his eyes were beads of malice. Driscoll half grunted. A long way round for a drink, he thought. "Here," he said, getting out his flask, "have a pull at this." Murguia took it greedily. He had seen the flask before. The covering of leather was battered and peeled. "Perhaps a little--water?" he faltered. Driscoll nodded, and off the old Mexican ambled with the flask. When he returned, he had a glass, into which he had poured some of the liquor. The canteen he handed back to the trooper, who without a word replaced it in his pocket. Murguia lingered. He sipped his toddy absently. "I, I wonder why the friends of the senoritas do not come?" he ventured. "Want to get rid of them, eh, Murgie?" The old man shrugged his shoulders. "And why not? You may not believe me, senor, but should I not feel easier if they were--well, out of the reach of Don Rodrigo?" "Out of----Look here, where's the danger now?" "Ai, senor, don't be too sure. Colonel Dupin still does not come, and it might be--because the guerrillas have stopped him." "Man alive, he had 'em running!" "H'm, yes, but there's plenty more. This very village breeds them, feeds them, welcomes them home. Don Rodrigo can gather ten times what he had to-day. And if he does, and if, if he is looking for the senoritas again----"