XVI

It was eleven o’clock when the car rolled down the main street of El Toro.  From the sidewalk, sundry citizens, of diverse shades of color and conditions of servitude, observing Minuet Farrel, halted abruptly and stared as if seeing a ghost.  Don Mike wanted to shout to them glad words of greeting, of affectionate badinage, after the fashion of that easy-going and democratic community, but he feared to make the girl at his side conspicuous; so he contented himself by uncovering gravely to the women and waving debonairly to the men.  This constituting ocular evidence that he was not a ghost or a man who bore a striking physical resemblance to one they mourned as dead, the men so saluted returned his greeting.

The few who had recognized him as he entered the town, quickly, by their cries of greeting, roused the loungers and idle conversationalists along the sidewalks further down the street.  There was a rush to shop doors, a craning of necks, excited inquiries in Spanish and English; more shouts of greeting.  A gaunt, hawk-faced elderly man, with Castilian features, rode up on a bay horse, showed a sheriff’s badge to William, the chauffeur, and informed him he was arrested for speeding.  Then he pressed his horse close enough to extend a hand to Farrel.

“Miguel, my boy,” he said in English, out of deference to the girl in the car, “this is a very great—­a very unexpected joy.  We have grieved for you, my friend.”

His faint clipped accent, the tears in his eyes, told Kay that this man was one of Don Miguel’s own people.  Farrel clasped the proffered hand and replied to him in Spanish; then, remembering his manners, he presented the horseman as Don Nicolas Sandoval, sheriff of the county.  Don Nicolas bent low over his horse’s neck, his wide gray hat clasped to his gallant heart.

“You will forgive the emotion of a foolish old man, Miss Parker,” he said, “but we of San Marcos County love this boy.”

Other friends now came running; in a few minutes perhaps a hundred men, boys, and women had surrounded the car, struggling to get closer, vying with each other to greet the hero of the San Gregorio.  They babbled compliments and jocularities at him; they cheered him lustily; with homely bucolic wit they jeered his army record because they were so proud of it, and finally they began a concerted cry of; “Speech!  Speech!  Speech!”

Don Mike stood up in the tonneau and removed his hat.  Instantly silence settled over the crowd, and Kay thought that she had never seen a more perfect tribute of respect paid anyone.  He spoke to them briefly, with a depth of sentiment only possible in a descendant of two of the most sentimental races on earth; but he was not maudlin.  When he had concluded his remarks, he repeated them in Spanish for the benefit of those who had never learned English very well or at all.

And now, although Kay did not understand a word of what he said, she realized that in his mother tongue he was infinitely more tender, more touching, more dramatic than he could possibly be in English, for his audience wagged approving’ heads now and paid him the tribute of many a furtive tear.