Then I, finding my tongue, begged his worship would pardon us if our manners were more uncouth than the society to which he was accustomed.

“Nay,” says Dawson, “Your worship will like us none the worse, I warrant, for seeing what we are and aping none.”

Finding himself thus beworshipped on both hands, our good friend says: 

“You may call me Senor.  I am a Spaniard.  Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelana.”  And then to turn the subject, he adds:  “I have seen you play twice.”

“Aye, Senor, and I should have known you again if by nothing but this piece of generosity,” replies Dawson, with his cheek full of pasty, “for I remember both times you set down a piece and would take no change.”

Don Sanchez hunched his shoulders cavalierly, as if such trifles were nought to him; but indeed throughout his manner was most high and noble.

And now, being fairly settled down to our repast, we said no more of any moment that I can recall to mind till we had done (which was not until nought remained of the pullets and the pasty but a few bones and the bare dish), and we were drawn round the fire at Don Sanchez’s invitation.  Then the drawers, having cleared the tables, brought up a huge bowl of hot spiced wine, a dish of tobacco, and some pipes.  The Don then offered us to smoke some cigarros, but we, not understanding them, took instead our homely pipes, and each with a beaker of hot wine to his hand sat roasting before the fire, scarce saying a word, the Don being silent because his humour was of the reflective grave kind (with all his courtesies he never smiled, as if such demonstrations were unbecoming to his dignity), and we from repletion and a feeling of wondrous contentment and repose.  And another thing served to keep us still, which was that our Moll, sitting beside her father, almost at once fell asleep, her head lying against his shoulder as he sat with his arm about her waist.  As at the table, Don Sanchez had seated himself where he could best observe her, and now he scarcely once took his eyes off her, which were half closed as if in speculation.  At length, taking the cigarro from his lips, he says softly to Jack Dawson, so as not to arouse Moll: 

“Your daughter.”

Jack nods for an answer, and looking down on her face with pride and tenderness, he put back with the stem of his pipe a little curl that had strayed over her eyes.  She was not amiss for looks thus, with her long eyelashes lying like a fringe upon her cheeks, her lips open, showing her good white teeth, and the glow of the firelight upon her face; but her attitude and the innocent, happy expression of her features made up a picture which seemed to me mighty pretty.

“Where is her mother?” asks Don Sanchez, presently; and Dawson, without taking his eyes from Moll’s face, lifts his pipe upwards, while his big thick lips fell a-trembling.  Maybe, he was thinking of his poor Betty as he looked at the child’s face.