It was wonderful, considering all the circumstances, that Walter Grey did not die. But since life remained, it was not wonderful that even in the galleys his crushed heart began to recover itself, under the combined influences of heavenly hope, and of the thoughtful and generous ministrations of his new friend. It had at first been no trifling ingredient in his cup of bitterness that the robbers and murderers amongst whom he toiled looked upon him as a wretch infinitely more degraded than themselves. Even the Quatrero was wont to play the Pharisee, and, crossing himself devoutly, to thank God that he was not as this English heretic. But things were altered now. He was beginning to be regarded by his comrades as a person of distinction rather, and one whose intercession might upon occasion do them a good turn. At least he could and did procure for them, or share with them, many a valued gift, including the much-prized tobacco. They thought he owed the special favour he enjoyed to his extremely youthful appearance; José always called him “El Mozo”—the lad. “Ask our Indian, next time he comes, to tell us his master’s name and his own,” said Walter’s comrades to him one day. And Walter did so. José smiled at the question; and very readily informed him that his patre was called Fray Fernando, and “a man more like a saint there never was in the world,” he added. But when pressed to tell his own name, he returned an evasive answer, saying that the rowers ought first to tell him theirs. It was wonderful how far José contrived to lay aside the reserved and stately dignity of his ordinary bearing, and to assume a frank and friendly, even a jovial manner, in talking with these poor men. For it was absolutely necessary to his plans that they should all regard him with confidence, as a friend. Yet he drew the line somewhere; he never touched them. They complied, gladly enough, with his request; the more hardened telling him their _sobriquets_ with coarse jests and oaths, which he fortunately did not understand. At last, however, it came to the turn of Walter’s special friend, who said simply, “I am called the matador.” “Matador!” José repeated. “That means—man who slays a bull.” Great was the astonishment and admiration with which this evidence of José’s knowledge inspired the galley-slaves; and it was certainly remarkable in an Indian. “And did you really slay a bull, señor matador?” he questioned with interest. “No, Señor Indio. I only wounded him, and saved a gentleman from being gored.” “Tell the story, matador,” cried several voices.