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The major-domo laughed, not displeased with the homage paid to his person and supposed importance, and suffering himself to be amused by the villager’s unusual garrulity. Las Vigas he knew of as a tiny village perched among the cliffs of the defile leading from Guanapila, whence fat turkeys were taken to market on feast-days, when its few inhabitants went down to hear Mass, and to turn an honest penny. They were a harmless people, these poor villagers, and he felt a glow of charity as if warmed by some personal gift, as he said, “Take a fair share of barley and straw for thy beast, and when thou hast given it to him, follow me into the kitchen, and thou shalt not lack a tortilla, nor frijoles and chile wherewith to season it.”

“May your grace live a thousand years!” began the villager, when the major-domo interrupted him.

“What is thy name? So bold a traveller must needs have a name.”

“Surely,” answered the villager, gravely, “and Holy Church gave it to me. Juan—Juan Planillos, at your service.”