“Ah, the gentleman of the pantuflos, whose trousers will not remain!  I have seen him, friend.  Truly he has the ambition excessif to arrive from the bed to go to the work without the dress or the wash.  But,” in recognition of Grey’s half serious impatience, “remain tranquil.  On him I shall not go back!  I have said!  The friend of my friend is ever the same as my friend!  He is truly not seducing to the eye, but without doubt he will arrive a governor or a senator in good time.  I shall gif to him my second cousin.  It is feenish!  I will tell him now!”

He attempted to rise, but was held down and vigorously shaken by Grey.

“I’ve half a mind to let you do it, and get chucked through the window for your pains,” said the editor, with a half laugh.  “Listen to me.  This is a more serious matter than you suppose.”

And Grey briefly recounted the incident of the mysterious attacks on Starbottle and Richards.  As he proceeded he noticed, however, that the ironical light died out of Enriquez’s eyes, and a singular thoughtfulness, yet unlike his usual precise gravity, came over his face.  He twirled the ends of his penciled mustache—­an unfailing sign of Enriquez’s emotion.

“The same accident that arrive to two men that shall be as opposite as the gallant Starbottle and the excellent Richards shall not prove that it come from Ramierez, though they both were at the fonda,” he said gravely.  “The cause of it have not come to-day, nor yesterday, nor last week.  The cause of it have arrive before there was any gallant Starbottle or excellent Richards; before there was any American in California—­before you and I, my leetle brother, have lif!  The cause happen first—­two hundred years ago!”

The editor’s start of impatient incredulity was checked by the unmistakable sincerity of Enriquez’s face.  “It is so,” he went on gravely; “it is an old story—­it is a long story.  I shall make him short—­and new.”

He stopped and lit a cigarette without changing his odd expression.

“It was when the padres first have the mission, and take the heathen and convert him—­and save his soul.  It was their business, you comprehend, my Pancho?  The more heathen they convert, the more soul they save, the better business for their mission shop.  But the heathen do not always wish to be ‘convert;’ the heathen fly, the heathen skidaddle, the heathen will not remain, or will backslide.  What will you do?  So the holy fathers make a little game.  You do not of a possibility comprehend how the holy fathers make a convert, my leetle brother?” he added gravely.

“No,” said the editor.

“I shall tell to you.  They take from the presidio five or six dragons—­you comprehend—­the cavalry soldiers, and they pursue the heathen from his little hut.  When they cannot surround him and he fly, they catch him with the lasso, like the wild hoss.  The lasso catch him around the neck; he is obliged to remain.  Sometime he is strangle.  Sometime he is dead, but the soul is save!  You believe not, Pancho?  I see you wrinkle the brow—­you flash the eye; you like it not?  Believe me, I like it not, neither, but it is so!”